Fooly-Cooly: The Pennsylvania War
by BigCountry75
Summary: Jeff 'Rig' Carson has a busy to-do list: Train G&R's new apprentice Naota Nandaba, hunt for Atomsk, prevent a Medical Mechanica incursion from becoming a war, keep an eye out for Haruko, resolve a decades-long family feud, battle his own demons AND keep his sanity, while all of these forces converge on his hometown of Osceola Mills. Knowing FLCL, 50/50 odds on the sanity, at best.
1. Chapter 1

Okay, right then, is thing on? Oh it is? Good, good...uh...hey! Hey there Fan-Fiction! It is a bending of my pride to admit this, but I had to take the first rendition of this story, under a different name at the time, down from the site. It just wasn't working out the way I wanted it to, and after some thought and insight from some other users on this site, I decided to rework it. Hopefully, this was the right decision and you'll enjoy the story (Improved! Reinvented! Rejuvinated! Revitalized! New car smell!) and will let me know how I'm doing.

* * *

I do not own any of the original characters, events, locations or anything else pertaining to the world of Fooly-Cooly/Furi-Kuri. Everything belongs to its respective owners. Any references to real events or real persons is pure coincidence. Get it? Got it? Sweet.  
Okay, now that's out of the way… let's start the show.

. . .

"Good afternoon Mr. Nandaba." Commander Amaro said, barely audible over the deluge of rain. "I am Commander Amaro of the Interstellar Immigration Bureau. May I come in?"

"Of course, please come out of the weather." Kamon, a little grayer, and a little wiser, ushered Amaro inside the bakery. "And Mr. Nandaba's much too formal for me. Mon-Chan's just fine."

"Very well…Mon-Chan. Did you receive my message? I'm assuming yes, you don't seem surprised to see me." Amaro asked as he shook out his umbrella before closing it and stepping inside.

"I did get it, but after what happened four years ago…" Kamon smiled as he remembered the events that had become known as 'The Mabase Incident'. "Nothing really surprises me anymore. Tea? Something to eat? We have plenty of bread…"

"Thank you, but no thank you. I'm very short on time."

"Then by all means, tell me what brings you here?" Kamon asked as they sat down. "And don't hesitate to be blunt. I find being direct and up-front to be best."

"Since you insist, I'll get right to it." Amaro paused to gather his thoughts. "A few things. First, Medical Mechanica has increased their efforts to conquer planets across the galaxy. They're more belligerent than ever and negotiations between them and us, being the Galactic Government, the Galactic Space Patrol Brotherhood and the Interstellar Immigration Bureau, have broken down. They just left us hanging at the table."

"I'm very sorry to hear that. Pardon my asking, but what does that have to do with me or my family?" Kamon asked, nervously stirring his tea.

"Is Naota home?"

"No, he's at school. Why?"

"I wouldn't want him hearing this." Amaro said, then clarified with: "Hearing this without proper context. Our intelligence leads us to believe that Medical Mechanica considers Naota a threat to them."

"Naota, a threat? How?"

"We're not entirely sure. It may have to do with the N.O. channel created in his head. M-M has yet to reveal exactly why, but they undoubtedly have taken a vested interest in him; and Earth again too."

"So what do you want from me then?" Kamon asked, his mug of tea forgotten. "You must want something, otherwise you could have just called; sent me a letter."

"We need you to relocate."

"Relocate? As in move?"

"Yes. And quickly. Mabase's a known target on M-M's list and they would know exactly where to find you if they wanted to." Amaro picked up the black attache case next to his chair and placed it on the table. "Oh, and I think this should go without saying…but we're not _asking_ you to move."

"You're telling me, yes, I thought so. After all, not once did you say please." Kamon grinned, sticking to humor to cover his unease. It was the only way he really knew how.

"Just so we're on the same page." Amaro opened his case and handed Kamon a hefty envelope; sealed with a wax stamp. "This envelope contains all the instructions you'll need for the move. Contact information, plane tickets, even a job offer for you Mon-Chan."

"A job offer?" Kamon was puzzled as he turned the envelope over, feeling its weight. "But I didn't apply anywhere…"

"We sent them your resume. Congratulations Mr. Assistant Editor-in-Chief of the Nittany Post." Amaro snapped his case shut and stood to leave. "I'm sorry that everything is on such short notice. But Medical Mechanica isn't wasting their time, so we cannot afford to. If you don't have any questions…"

"Commander." Kamon had not opened the packet yet and placed it on the table. "May I at least ask one favor, an indulgence?"

"If it's reasonable, and even then, the answer still may be no."

"I would prefer it, if Naota didn't know the real reason we're moving. He had a lot happen and even though it's been four years, he hasn't been quite the same since. Especially with it being the tenth year since…since his mother…" Kamon's voice shuddered and he stared down into his tea. "It's just a hard time for all of us right now."

"You have my sympathies. As far as your request goes, that will not be a problem. They would prefer it that way, actually."

"They?"

"Overwatch, the group responsible for you. One of their directives is low-profile protective custody. They'll be able to better explain everything themselves than I can. Now, do you have any last questions? I'm afraid I really am out of time."

"Where will we be going?" Kamon held up the envelope. "I'm sure it's in here, but I'd like to know now."

"The United States, a small mining town in Pennsylvania. Very rural, very out of the way."

"That'll be nice, we'll be closer to Tasuku."

"He plays for the…Altoona Curve, doesn't he?"

"Yes, how did you…never mind."

"You'll be just a few hours north of him. Now, if that is all, I really must be going. Take care Mr. Nandaba, we'll be in touch." Commander Amaro showed himself out, umbrella first into the downpour. Kamon stood to watch him leave but as he looked out the bakery's front windows, the red-headed agent had already vanished into the grey.

"How do they do that?" Kamon wondered aloud. "Just…disappear. Hmmph. Spooks." He sighed and returned to the envelope. He slit it open and upended its contents onto the table. As he began sifting through the papers, a set of heavy footsteps made their way out of the laundry room. The scent of freshly cleaned and dried clothes followed them as they headed for the stairs.

"Oh TV-boy!" Kamon called and Canti's TV-screen face appeared in the doorway; a question mark displayed on it. "Don't bother putting those away. We have to start packing."

. . .

He had to hurry, he had to hide! With a legion of pursuers breathing down his neck, the I.I.B., the G.S.P.B., M-M and _that_ Haruko Haruhara, Atomsk couldn't afford to be caught out in the open. Through his erratic flight path across the galaxy, Atomsk found himself over Earth again. It was a most curious little planet, with an even more curious group of inhabitants. Despite its relative isolation, it seemed to attract all manner of strange events and phenomena; Atomsk not included.

He flew low over the first land he spotted, skimming just above the trees. The ground rolled, swelled and fell away like an ocean on a windy day. Ahead, the summertime Friday night lights of a small town winked up at him; shining from their nestled corner in a narrow valley. He made a pass over the town, momentarily silhouetted by the setting sun. As he disappeared over the next ridge, he was spotted by a pair of observant eyes. The owner of those eyes spat out their plug of tobacco, pulled down their goggles and kicked their dirt bike to life. They eye's owner had a very important report to make.

At last, Atomsk found what he was looking for. The maw of an abandoned coal mine, indistinguishable from its neighbors, opened up on a hillside; obscured by mounds of raw coal, aggregate and fill dirt. Atomsk dove to mere feet, his whirlwind accidentally knocking over the sign at the mine's front gate. Once inside the mine, Atomsk settled in for a long rest. Even with his power, this latest flight had left him exhausted. He knew that his pursuers would never call off their search; especially if he were merely hiding in a hole. But it would be enough for now, enough for him to recover some strength and for them to scratch their heads in confusion.

'That would be a sight.' Atomsk chuckled to himself. 'Seeing the Galaxy's finest agents bewildered by a simple disappearing act. They're all such interesting creatures. Humans, Haruko's kind, even Medical Mechanica, in their own way.' He readjusted his posture, giving his ruby red feathers one last rustle before drifting off. 'Very interesting…very interesting creatures indeed…'

. . .

"So, are you _sure_ that we're moving?" Naota asked, even as his father handed him a flattened stack of cardboard boxes. "Isn't this a little short notice? And just…why?"

"Why not?!" Kamon asked, leaping onto the dinner table. Somehow he had magically produced a set of buckskin pants and fringed coat to match and a coonskin cap was on his head, the tail draped on his shoulder. "For the excitement, and the adventurous spirit that filled those brave explorers that came before us! We're off to discover new and uncharted lands! We're answering the same call those noble pioneers heard centuries before us; to go, see, and conquer the world! What do you think of that eh?!"

"I think you've finally, truly and totally, lost it." Naota said and started for the stairs.

"Naota, wait a moment please." Kamon said and Naota stopped instantly. His father had brought out his rarely used serious tone. "I know that this is very short notice. But please, try to understand. Your Grandfather isn't getting any younger and wants to retire. I'm not cut out for running the bakery myself and I finally have a job offer in my field. Plus, we'll get to be closer to your brother; I know how much I miss him some days."

"I get all that, it's just really sudden and out of the blue is all." He said. "But hey, it is what it is. I guess I'll start packing now." He started up the stairs. "Besides, this town's gotten waaay too boring anyway, I need a change of pace."

"That's the spirit!" Kamon cheered as Naota dragged himself up the steps. He felt exhausted, Kamon seemed to draw his energy from all those around him to stay so upbeat.

'He's like an Energizer Bunny…' He thought as he shouldered his door open. 'Just keeps going, and going, and going, and damn my room is a mess.' He realized as he surveyed the controlled chaos scarcely contained within; reasonably typical for a sixteen year old. Clothes were piled on his bed, but they would be moved to his desk at night and back to his bed again in the morning; a vicious cycle. His desk was currently covered with papers, pens and notebooks from school and just behind a stack of textbooks was his most prized possession. Tucked away in the corner on its stand, was the midnight blue Rickenbacker 4001, left-handed model. It had been four years since Haruko had left it behind and during that time, Naota had gotten quite good at playing it. Visions of a lighted stage and a roaring crowd didn't occupy his thoughts though. It was just good to play and lose himself for a while in the music, forgetting everything, even Haruko. He had pined for a month or so in hoping and wishing she would come back. Even if he had to get run over with her Vespa again, he wouldn't have minded _too_ much. The dreams he used to have about her had eventually subsided into the occasional annoyance before fading away completely; a welcome relief. As the months rolled by, he had come to accept that his memories and the bass were to be his only mementos of her. Although, a small voice in his head had started wondering how she would find him if she ever did come back; since he was moving and all.

"Still wonder what got Dad to decide that?" He asked as he started shoving clothes into a box. "Moving to America…such a random thing." Kamon had explained that his tabloid writings or as he called them, investigative journals, had been read by a traveling editor from America, Pennsylvania specifically, who offered a full-time, salaried position at the magazine and offered a very liberal artistic license. In all fairness, Naota had to agree it was a very good deal. He was slightly disappointed they would be living in the countryside instead of the city; a small backwater in the middle of nowhere, as far as he was concerned. It was smack in the center of the state, a town named Osceola Mills. Kamon would be commuting into State College during the week where the action was at and return home on the weekends. He said the 'rural living would be a means of enhancing his creative genius'…or something like that anyway.

"At least it'll be a change of scenery, so that'll be nice, I guess." He said as he folded the last flattened box into shape and added it to the stack of its fellows. Another glance around his room reinforced how much junk he had acquired and how long it was going to take to pack up. "Eh, I think that's enough for tonight. I'll get the rest in the morning." He slumped over to his bed, catching the light as he fell. With the house quiet, he found sleep easily. As he hovered just at the edge of consciousness, there was a noise, a heavy **_Bummmmmmmm…_** from the corner behind his desk.

'Wha? The bass?' His last groggy thought before fading out. 'No…couldn' have been…'

. . .

"Yes, yes…I understand. Very well, I'll let them know." The man hung up and sighed heavily, dreading the news he now had to deliver. "I hope they don't take it too hard, they've got enough to deal with already." He looked over at the black attache case on the passenger seat, packed with orders and the massive one on the backseat, packed with sorrows. "Well, let's just get this over with." He picked up the case and stepped out of his car to get the other one from the backseat, his shoes crunching on the gravel lot. In front of him was a weathered, corrugated metal sheathed, fabrication shop; its two forty foot tall bay doors open to reveal the showers of sparks and arc flashes inside.

"Carson! George Carson!" The agent yelled, trying to shout down a pneumatic wrench, sizzling welders and Ted Nugent blasting from a stereo as old as the shop itself. "Hello?!"

"Why're you yelling Griggs? I'm right here." A man stepped out of an office door on the shop's front, to Agent Griggs' right. "How the hell are yah, haven't seen you in around for…what, ten months?"

"Nine months, actually." Agent Griggs corrected and brought the massive case to his front. "And don't get used to me, I'm short on time."

"Everyone is these days." George said, twisting the bolt-like ring on his right middle finger. "Medical Mechanica's gone beserk, Atomsk's been sighted over my hometown, the Galaxy's going to Hell in a hand basket."

"Hence why I'm here." Agent Griggs looked around the shop and surrounding property. "Where…is Jeff?"

"Jeff? He's uh…" George leaned around one of the bay doors and looked inside the shop. "I think he's under the Bronco. Well, _his_ Bronco as he says, provided he ever gets it running." George pointed to a dilapidated '78 Ford Bronco of several colors; the most predominant being rust. "Jeff! You in there?! You have a visitor!"

"What?" Jeff called back, a pair of boots under the Bronco moved.

"Jeff!"

"What?!"

"JEFF!"

"WHAT?!"

"NOW!"

"I heard you the first time!" A grease, oil and rust-chip covered Jeff rolled out on a creeper and walked over. "Just testin' your hearing old man. Mr. Griggs, a surprise and pleasure. It's been what, nine months? How's the promotion suiting you?"

"It's been, it's been fine. Just fine." Agent Griggs said, feeling a lump starting to rise in his throat. The Carson's friendliness was not making his job any easier. "There's ah, there's something I have to tell you, and I'm so sorry you have to hear it from me."

"What happened?" Jeff asked, eyes narrowing in suspicion. "C'mon Griggs, let's have it. Don't be a puss about it."

"You're father's dead Jeff, I'm so sorry." Agent Griggs blurted, expelling the breath he had been holding. There, the Band-Aid had been ripped off. It was over, for Agent Griggs at least.

"Oh." Jeff said, his face slackening to a blank stare. "W-what happened?" He asked in a small voice, taking off his hat and staining it black as he twisted it in his greasy hands.

"We're not sure. We know he was investigating Medical Mechanica activity and went into one of the areas under their direct control. His body hasn't been recovered."

"Then what's that?" Jeff nodded at the four-foot long case Agent Griggs had in his right hand.

"His effects." Agent Griggs turned to the hood of his car, laid the case on it and opened it up. "These we were able to recover. A Ruger GP100…" Agent Griggs pointed to the stainless steel revolver, black streaks of powder residue from dozens of fired rounds dirtying its muzzle, frame and cylinder. "A nineteen fifty-six Gibson Les Paul…Sssstandard I think…" An electric guitar with a scratched and scarred body that had originally been black as night but now covered in deep gouges, a cracked Bigsby tailpiece and a whammy bar hanging by a mere happy thought. "And…one carabiner." A four-inch long, locking gate carabiner made of a dense, heavy metal.

"This's it huh?" Jeff asked, merely staring at the items and seemed reluctant to pick any of them up. "So…now what? What's in that?"

"Well…" Agent Griggs said slowly, trying to gauge Jeff's reaction. He seemed to be taking the news well, considering it was his own father that had been killed. "There's an assignment for this station; a protective custody case. This has all the details." He opened the case and handed George a packet of orders. "It's a family relocating from Japan, the son has an N.O. channel that's off the charts and we think M-M is taking an interest in him."

"N.O. channel huh?" George said, opening the orders. "I've never really understood N.O. It may as well be black magic to me. But if M-M wants him, then we'll do our best to make M-M's life difficult."

"Glad to hear it. Now one last thing. Jeff?"

"Mmm?" Jeff's face had paled as he looked at the case's contents, his jaw locked solid and his mouth drawn into a tight line.

"Since your father has passed, you are to be promoted in his stead; and this assignment is to be your first." Agent Griggs informed him and picked up the carabiner. "I'm sorry it had to happen like this, but we're already desperate for manpower. The I.I.B.'s lost twenty just this month, the G.S.P.B. fifteen officers, an Overwatch station on another planet was completely wiped out last week. If things keep going as they are, it looks like war is inevitable."

"That it does." Jeff took the carabiner and clipped it onto the belt loop over his left hip. "So…so now…" He started but had to stop and take a deep breath to steady himself. "So now what does that make me?"

"A full Overwatch Agent, with all the authority, powers and, responsibilities, that come with it. Congratulations." Agent Griggs put out his hand and Jeff shook it quickly, his own hand was starting to shake. "Again, I'm sorry about your father. Are you going to be alright?"

"Yeah. Fine, I'll be…just fine. Thank you." Jeff said curtly. "If that'll be all, I think, I'm going to clock out early today."

"That'd be okay Jeff." George allowed. "Take your time, just be back before dark." Jeff merely grunted in response, walking across the shop's dirt lot to a house's carport and a waiting orange and black dirt bike. He started up and roared away, throwing a small mountain of dirt behind him in his wake, the scream of the bike's engine rapidly fading away.

"Did I miss something?" Agent Griggs asked, trying to spot Jeff but he was already out of sight. "He didn't seem all that shaken up by the news about his father."

"Jeff and his Dad never got along." George explained and started reading the orders. "Mostly because they're so alike, and different at the same time. They hadn't seen each other for about a year now."

"I didn't realize it was that bad between them. What about his mother?" Agent Griggs inquired and George just shook his head.

"Don't start down that road, leads nowhere good."

"Sorry I asked."

"You couldn't have known, we don't exactly go around telling everyone our personal problems. Anyway…" George sighed, taking off his glasses and wiping his eyes on his sleeve. "Ahem-hem-hem. Anyway, I've heard of this Mabase Incident through the grapevine…but this's something else. The kid, Naota, was twelve at the time?"

"He's sixteen now, same's Jeff."

"That'd be nice, hopefully the two will get along." George said as he flipped pages. "The rest here seems fairly self-explanatory. I'm sure Jeff'll be able to handle this, once he calms down of course. If he gets into any trouble, Tommy or I'll step in."

"That's the first positive thing I've heard all day." Agent Griggs checked his watch, he had overstayed and was late. "Alright, I'm outta here George; D.C.'s calling. Take care, good luck and remember: keep this quiet and low-profile!"

"No promises; but we'll do our very best." George assured and Agent Griggs started his car.

"In today's reality, that's all anyone can do!" He said in parting and he too left the shop's lot. George watched Agent Griggs go, then clapped his hand to his head in revelation.

"Wait…since Jeff's Dad is gone, that makes ME the Station Chief! How did Griggs…" He was interrupted by his cell phone's chime. A text from Agent Griggs read:

-4Got 2 mention. U R station chief now. GL.

"Oh, that's just great. And here I was, ready to retire to Florida. So much for Miami Vice…" He sighed as the heavy weight of his brother's passing settled on his chest. "Bad timing as always little bro..." As George processed his own promotion, Jeff came back an hour later and skidded to a stop just shy of the shop's office door. "You okay Rig…Jeff?"

"Okay as I can be." Jeff said, the edges of his eyes rimmed red. "Best thing for me's to keep busy; lemme look at the orders." George handed them over and Jeff leaned against the shop's wall to read. "So it's the dude from The Mabase Incident? Naota…Nandaba. Pretty unassuming looking guy." Jeff held up the most recent school photo day picture paper-clipped to the file.

"It's always the most normal ones you want to watch out for." George cautioned. "Because if they go weird, you never know what you'll get."

"Ain't that the truth?" Jeff agreed and flipped another page. "They'll be here in three days?!"

"Short notice, always is."

"Story of our lives." Jeff said, then looked up from the orders at George. "I'm really in charge of this?"

"Your first assignment came under one of the worst possible ways, but yes. It's all yours." Jeff shook his head in disbelief, asking if command was really that desperate. George said he had no answer, but asked what Jeff's first move was, now that he was officially an Overwatch Agent.

"Well…sittin' here, wringing my hands isn't very productive." Jeff stood, folded the orders and replaced them into their envelope. "Call the guys in the shop to a meeting then, I'll put these in my room and get ahold of Tommy. We have some serious scrambling to do."

. . .

"First we go up a mountain…" Naota noted as their U-Haul crested another ridge. "Then we go down the mountain…and right back up another one!" He felt like he was on a sailboat, bobbing bow-into the ocean's oncoming waves. "Isn't there any flat parts to this state?" He looked over at Canti in the middle seat. The robot, pulled from the wreckage of the Medical Mechanica plant's terminal core after Haruko had left, simply shrugged.

"It certainly does have a rolling feel, a plunging and rising feel to it." Kamon agreed from the driver's seat, gazing excitedly around while Naota stared out the window, looking but not seeing. Shigekuni had gone ahead with most of their possessions the day before and Natoa, Kamon and Canti had picked up the rest when they arrived at the airport. It wasn't how Naota envisioned arriving in America, loading up a U-Haul. "That is to be expected though, we are in the Alleghenies."

"Al-ah-ghen-ies?" Naota fumbled over the word.

"It's an offshoot of the Appalachian Mountains. We're going to be real hill-folk Nao!" The coonskin cap re-materialized again out of the ether. "We'll have to brush up on our moon-shining, maybe get us an old car to race on the dirt tracks!" Kamon chuckled at his own humor while Naota rolled his eyes and went back to staring out the window.

As he did, the landscape struck him as mesmerizing. It really was a mountainous state, Pennsylvania; it looked like the Earth here was a rumpled blanket. The highway followed the topography, curving with each bend in the mountains, diving into valleys and soaring again to notches chiseled and blasted through ridge lines. In the sheer rock walls the holes drilled for dynamite charges were still visible in spots, half of the shafts remained with one every foot for miles. From his view atop one of the higher crests, Naota could see what appeared to be an endless forest. A deep, dark green quilt had been draped across the land, smoothing out some of the sharper edges. Having lived in the industrial concrete and asphalt of Mabase all of his sixteen years, Naota felt like he had been taken back in time. It was a place lost to the ages, full of old legends and mysterious things that defied logical explanation. As he surveyed his new home state, Naota felt, for the first time in years, a prickle of excitement crawling up his spine; leaving the hairs on the nape of his neck standing on edge. Perhaps there was more to this land than just hills and trees?

. . .

"I was wondering when you three were going to get here!" Shigekuni grumped from the front porch. "You called four hours ago to say it'd be three hours."

"Sorry gramps." Naota apologized as he hopped out of the U-Haul. "Dad decided it wouldn't be very _adventurous_ to bring a map." He explained as Kamon sheepishly waved it off. It was late in the afternoon and Naota had fallen asleep for the last hour of the ride, so now was his first look at his new home. The house itself was brick and on the right side, single story. The left was two storied and below it was a garage dug into the hillside. Most of the neighbors were smaller houses as well, each had wide yards shaded by ancient trees so massive he could never get his arms around them. The main road was paved, but the little cluster of houses in front of his and to their left and right, all had gravel for their side road and driveways. And of course, like everywhere thus far, there was a slope to their lawn, this one down and to the north.

Naota grabbed the first of many boxes and followed Canti inside to take a look around. It had a feel to it, an old feel. The walls were paneled with a wooden veneer in a deep brown and the carpet was a lighter shade of the same brown. He looked out the back window through the kitchen into the backyard and saw the hill the house was built into, continued to sharply rise at least another fifty feet. Naota wandered around the house while Canti unloaded, it was barren at best. It was devoid of furnishings, their living room filled only by a TV on a two by six and cinder block bench, a cable spool coffee table and three folding lawn chairs for seating.

"Dad, Gramps…Canti?" Naota stepped back outside and found the trio had become a quartet. "Hi, who are you?"

"Naota, this's the man we're renting our house from." Kamon explained. "His name is George Carson." George was a man of medium height and about sixty years; dressed in brown boots, grease spattered jeans and an equally dirty neon green t-shirt. He had a small belly threatening to encroach over his belt, rosy cheeks that flanked a smile of grinning, seemingly unnaturally white teeth. A curl of equally white hair was scarcely contained by a green baseball cap, the letters on it obscured from wear.

"So you're Naota?!" George put out a hand with massive knuckles and a bolt-like ring on his middle finger that conspired to crush Naota's fingers. "Glad to finally meet you in the flesh. Your Grandpa and I've been swappin' I-don't-cares; quite the storyteller when you get him wound up. He tells me there's some history behind this robot here; says you've had some adventures of your own already. Something about aliens and an evil corporation?" George was very pleasant and easy-going, his eyes twinkling behind his glasses. It was the little sheen in his eyes that puzzled Naota; it made George look like he knew some grand secret.

"Uh, yeah…I guess. He's just being dramatic." Naota didn't know quite how to react to such open friendliness.

"Eh, whatever you say. I think you'll get along better with Rig, he's more your age. Better than hangin' around with us old duffers, right Kamon?" George addressed Kamon, the two laughed and Naota groaned. George seemed to be just as immature as his Dad. "Oh, here's Tommy." A battered, beaten and mostly black where is wasn't coated with mud and dirt, Chevy S-10 came hurtling over the hill from the south. It approached at top speed before screeching to a stop inches from the group in a cloud of dust and pebbles, loud rock music blasting from inside.

"Hey, hey George! When's Rig gettin' back? King Coal's asked for him." Tommy looked like George but thirty years younger and thirty pounds lighter. He was similarly clothed but somehow even dirtier. His hair even stuck out in the same way from his own green hat but it was a dirty blonde instead of white. His grin was even wilder, accented by a heavy five o'clock shadow, a narrower face with a sharp jawline and the same secretive gleam in his eyes; shining from over his sunglasses.

"Not sure, he should have been back by now. You know how he likes to roam around."

"Figured as much. Oh hey, sorry for ignoring you bud, name's Tommy. You're…don't tell me…" Tommy put out a hand that looked more like a bear paw, and further mangled Naota's already sore fingers. "Naota, right?"

"Yes, that's right. How did you…?"

"Heard it through the grapevine." Tommy let him have what was left of his hand back and pushed his sunglasses back up his nose. "Your Grandpa's really talked you a good game to quite a few people already." He plucked a pop bottle from his console, partially filled with a murky brown fluid, and spat some more of the same fluid into the bottle before replacing it. "If I were you, I'd invest in a new front door; otherwise all the single girls 'round here'll break it down when they find out you've arrived."

"I'll keep that in mind, thanks for the advice."

"No problem. See yah 'round Naota." Tommy gave a short, two-fingered salute, put his truck in gear and roared away down the hill; gone as quickly as he had arrived.

"Well you've met Tommy, my youngest." George said. "Suzy's in dentist school and Little Georgie's deployed in Afghanistan. Tom's like me in that we Carson's only have two speeds: dead stop and pedal to the floor."

"It must be nice to agree on something. Naota and I aren't the least alike." Kamon sighed. "He's always such a down-to-Earth and serious boy."

"Hey…right here!" Naota couldn't believe Kamon could speak so freely about him in front of a relative stranger.

"Down to Earth and serious at sixteen?" George looked, for some reason he couldn't fathom, amused. "Well, that's not necessarily a bad thing. Someone has to keep the rest of us grounded in reality, right?"

"Exactly!" Naota agreed. Then the phone on George's belt pinged.

"Excuse me, I gotta bounce, duty calls. I'm just down the hill if you need anything, don't be a stranger!" George pointed a little way down the slope at another house built into the hill; a single story above ground clad in heavy shingle siding. The back porch was also the awning for the basement's door and patio, where a grill, something under a blue tarp and a worn-out easy chair were just outside the basement door. "Oh, two last things. Naota first. I'm always hiring, come down for an interview if you want. Second, for all of you, welcome to the great state of Pennsylvania; it's a pleasure to have you here." George then took his leave, talking excitedly to someone on his phone.

"So he's our landlord?" Naota asked, the hope he had moved to a normal part of the world starting to ebb away.

"Yes he is. Mr. Carson runs quite a few operations through his business. Cranes, excavation, trucking, welding…sounds like it would make for an interesting summer job huh?" Kamon suggested in a not-so subtle hint.

"Finnnneee…I'll go see him tomorrow." Naota huffed, annoyed his Dad was already nagging him about a summer job; it was only June.

"Very good, glad to hear it." Kamon headed back to the U-Haul with Gramps and Canti in tow. "Hey, how about you take your bike and go find us some dinner in town, scout the place out? I know you fell asleep and missed it during the drive; good chance to look around." Delighted at the chance to get out of lifting boxes and with a helping of his own curiosity, Naota pulled his bike from the truck. He began pedaling north, trying to get out of earshot before Kamon had the chance to change his mind.

. . .

'Man, Pennsylvania really is all hills…' Naota panted as he sped down another hill, to gain speed for the next one; passing Christoff Mitchell Petroleum and its massive tanks of propane on his right, and Dunlap's Used Cars on his left. He was on the edge of the road's pavement, trees on either side whipping by in a greenish-brown blur. 'But it sure is pretty so far…' He admitted as he passed the sign for the town of Philipsburg and its borough of Chester Hill.

He entered Chester Hill first. It greeted him with a _Comet_ supermarket and grocery, then several custom machine shops; many with construction vehicles out front that towered above the buildings. Legions of small houses crowded up to the sidewalk, occasionally giving way to industrial lots, a softball field on the left and an aggregate company across the street with piles of rock right against the road. A few more rows of houses passed by, then an oil and natural gas drilling parts supplier named Scomi; headquartered in an old car dealership. In the former sales lot, a massive flat-bed truck with a built-in crane behind the cab, was loading a stack of heavy duty scaffolding onto a waiting tractor trailer. Next to Scomi was a squat brick building with a glowing neon sign that read: Hi-Way Pizza. The restaurant's line stretched out the door. He decided to try for somewhere with less of a wait and continued through Chester Hill towards Philipsburg. He came to an iron plate bridge and a set of railroad tracks on the opposite side. As he crossed, there arose from under the bridge a sour and bad-egg smell. He stopped to peer over the edge and saw a fifty foot wide, knee-deep river that was rusty red from top to bottom.

"Smells like…sulfur." He said after a few whiffs and started pedaling again. "And I thought Mabase was dirty. Chester Hill and Philipsburg's river is orange!" He made his way up another hill and turned left at the intersection, now in Philipsburg. To his left was a majestic, cathedral like church built of tan colored stones three feet across. Now he was on what seemed the main thoroughfare, thrumming with people and lined with cars parked bumper to bumper. As he slowly wound his way through town, he took in the new surroundings and found it not what he expected.

While most of Mabase had been relatively new, built mostly in the '70's, Philipsburg was very old. Most of the buildings and businesses in them were brick or stone, barely any of them over three stories tall. Some of the more ornate buildings had carved facades above their doors or designs chiseled on the corners. The most decorated was the movie theater, the Rowland, with its cornerstone marked with 1917. Houses were small too, something Naota had thought would be the opposite. They were all older too, porches made up their fronts with very small yards, wrought iron fences; all of them were clustered tightly together and were built almost right against the road. Philipsburg seemed a town that was sitting peacefully on a front porch, letting the world pass by. So far, it was proving to be a quiet, small town and that reminded Naota a little _too_ much of Mabase.

'This place's probably just as boring too.' Running out of sidewalk, he pulled over and started walking; the bike's gears ticking as he went. 'There doesn't seem to be anything to do around here, at least not yet anyway. Just a lot of old buildings, woods and trucks. So. Many. Trucks.' He complained as another dump truck lumbered by, weighed down with its payload of coal; the tenth such truck he'd seen in an hour. 'I'll bet nothing ever happens here, that's why it looks so old. I'm sure Haruko's…now why are you thinking about her?' He shoved the pink-haired patrol officer from his mind and tried to focus on finding somewhere to eat. Then, he heard a motorcycle engine.

. . .

I was late, oh sweet Christ I was late. So, soooooo late. I was supposed to meet the Nandaba's when they got to their house, introduce myself, invite Naota down to G&R...George was going to be all kinds of pissed! They were even an hour late, giving me a grace period and I missed that too! Tuesdays man, can never get it together on a Tuesday. To make up for lost time, I decided to hop off the railroad tracks and test my luck in Philipsburg's rush hour traffic. Hopefully I wouldn't run anyone over. That would be an absolute nightmare, on top of everything else.

. . .

The motorcycle was off to his right, somewhere behind the row of stores. The rider was quite adept at changing gears and keeping up their speed in tight city traffic; he could hear the bursts of the throttle echoing across town. The engine wasn't like the smooth purr of Haruko's Vespa, it was violently louder and rougher with long, throaty growls when the rider was hard on the gas. For reason he could never explain, he felt his pace quicken and was overcome with an urge to catch a glimpse of the machine making such a racket. His best guess was that it would appear in the second alley ahead. As he passed in front of the first one, he realized he had grossly miscalculated. The engine's roar filled his ears, terror flooded his heart and lead pooled into his legs. For the second time in his life, Naota was struck dumb in the face of an oncoming motorcycle. The last things he remembered were: a flash of orange, the feeling of a large, knobby tire striking him square in the face, and himself thinking "Oh fuck me…not this again!"

. . .

"Please don't be dead, please don't be dead, please don't be dead, please don't be dead…" I repeated the mantra, hoping that if I said it enough, it would become reality. I shouldn't have taken that ramp so fast, but once airborne, it's really hard to take a jump back; especially when you have already landed on someone. I rolled him over and saw his eyes were open. They spun around like wheels in a slot machine and read "Cashed. Out." when they stopped spinning. "C'mon, wake up…" I leaned over with my ear next to his mouth for Look, Listen and Feel and then…

"Uuuhhhhgggg…" At last! It's alive!

"Oh you're alive. Oh thank God. Oh thank God, Allah, Buddha, Shiva and the Flyin' Spaghetti Monster. Are you okay?"

"Owwwww…ow, ow, ow!" He winced as he did a function check on his face's muscles and rubbed the bright red tire track that ran from his chin to forehead. "What happened…and who are you?"

"What happened is a damn miracle, and I'm Jeff Carson." I introduced myself and offered to help him up. "And if you're not too mad about me running you over, friends call me Rig."

. . .

"So you're Jeff." Naota's brain was still firing on all cylinders despite the latest impact to its housing. He had hesitated to accept Jeff's hand, the scenario was all too familiar. But since Jeff wasn't trying to flip him upside down and shake him for all he was worth, nor did Jeff have a guitar slung across his back. So Naota accepted his help to get on his feet. "George mentioned you when I met him at my house."

"Ahhh…so you've met my Uncle George huh?" Jeff smiled knowingly. "Your name's…Naota, right?"

"Yeah, how'd you guess?"

"I have ways of knowing lots of things." Jeff said and the same secretive glint shone in his eyes, just like George and Tommy; it must have been a Carson family trait. He wasn't too sure what to make of that look in their eyes, but Jeff seemed friendly enough like the rest of his family. His face was leaner though, longer than it was wide, sporting his own attempt at a five o'clock shadow and the same curl of hair; except his was deep, dark brown. He stood a little taller than Naota, at around five-ten and a lean, wiry build. On his feet were multi-buckled black boots that looked like they were shod in steel, then jeans, a thick leather belt to hold them up, a dark hunter green mechanic's shirt and even the same hat as Tommy and George. This one was less worn and Naota could read it: G&R Fabrication and Cranes: Osceola Mills P.A. "I know most anything and everything going on in Clearfield and Centre counties. The perks of working for your Uncle." He smiled while wiping the dust from a pair of goggles with a red kerchief, one that he had originally been wearing across his face. The goggles were just the tip of the dirty iceberg, he was covered head to toe in the fine grey-ish brown dust. Jeff noticed Naota observing him and flashed his smile a little wider, then marred it by spitting out some murky brown fluid; the same Tommy had spat into his pop bottle. So…maybe Jeff wasn't the most sophisticated person, but he was alright, so far.

"Anything and everything huh?" Naota had done some quick thinking and decided it might be nice to have Jeff around. That is, if he _really_ knew where all the action was at, and wasn't just trying to impress him. "You'll have to put your money where your mouth is someday. In the meantime, is that a Yamaha YZ-450?"

"Oh, the Ought-Too?" Jeff looked down at the dirt bike he was leaning on. "You've an eye for motorbikes."

"Thanks, I've been meaning to get one of my own for a while, a motorcycle." He remembered how lots of people in school, back in Mabase, had mopeds or scooters, and little gangs of them were a routine sight; zipping around town. "But what's Ought-Too?"

"That's my number, see?" Jeff pointed at the black and white placard hanging off the bike's tail end. "Zero, or 'Ought' and two. That way, if someone asks if it'll go fast, I can say 'well it Ought-Too!' Get it?"

"Heh, I get it. Clever, very clever." He agreed and Jeff stepped aside so Naota could get a better look at the bike and its orange and black paint. "I like the color scheme, lot cooler than Yamaha's usual blue and white. How fast have you gone on it?"

"'Pends on the terrain. Dirt slows you up some, but I've hit eighty going down the asphalt."

"Dude! You're nuts to do eighty on a dirt bike!"

"Tell me about it, _almost_ got the Speed Wobbles last time."

"Those are the absolute worst! This guy, back in Japan, was trying to break one of his personal speed records. He started out at the top of the tallest hill in town and just, took off."

"Oh no…" Jeff sighed and looked sideways at him. "How bad was it?"

"Hospital bad. He broke his arm in two spots, got road rash real bad on his left side. He just completely lost control halfway down. It started as a little wiggle, then a wobble he over-corrected on and it got away from there."

"And he did this on pavement in the middle of town?" Jeff looked amazed someone would even consider the stunt. "You always want grass somewhere to try and land on, in case you have to bail."

"Yeah, he didn't plan that one too far ahead. Went more with his gut than his head. Speaking of which…" Naota interrupted himself with his stomach's growling. "Where's a good place around here to get takeout?"

"I know just the place! Here, hook up." Jeff reached into a small toolbox, one of several on the Ought-Too that looked like after-market add-ons, and extracted a steel cable with a hook on each end. "It's the least I can do, since I used your head as a landing pad…you're sure, that you're _sure,_ that you're okay?"

"Yes, really. I'm sure, I'm sure." He said as he secured his end of the cable to his bike. "This isn't the first time something like this has happened."

"Now _that_ is a story I'd love to hear." Jeff said as he straddled his dirt bike, pulled his goggles down over his eyes and his kerchief back over his nose, hiding his face. "But first and foremost! It's Hi-Way time!"

. . .

Hi-Way Pizza seemed to be THE place to be, now that Naota had actually gotten inside. It was a little less packed than when he had first passed it, but customers still were fighting to get through the door. Inside he saw all the ovens, prep areas and kitchen were right behind the counter and in full view of everyone so they could watch their pie go from dough to box. A large, grey-haired woman with pince-nez glasses was running the counter and would yell orders into the kitchen. She used a bellowing voice that filled the building and physically shook Naota as they waited in line.

"Jerry! Four pepperonis!" She shouted over her shoulder. "And Rig Carson's here!"

"W'all alrighty Sara, one thing at a time, one thing at a time!" Jerry towered nearly to the ceiling, his apron cradling a Pillsbury belly and his mustache and hair were powdered white with flour. "So Rig! How's she goin'?!" He boomed in a voice equally as loud as Sara's. "Your Uncle called, looking for you. Said you need to learn to answer your own phone."

"Yeah…I was, ah, I was busy." Jeff said, playing with the toothpick dispenser next to the register. "But to answer your question, I'm as alright as alright can be."

"Glad to hear it. Oh, and there was one more thing. Mr. King Coal himself's asked for you to come down. He dropped by for lunch and said his sign got all smashed up this weekend and wants you to come take a look."

"Well King's is on the way home…" As Jeff and Jerry talked, Naota notice two metal loop-type brackets were built into Jeff's unusually thick belt; one on each of his hips. On the left bracket dangled a heavy metal carabiner, four inches long with a screw locking gate. An interesting thing to have, but Naota decided he would ask about it later.

"And who's your new friend?" Jerry now peered at Naota over his half-moon glasses. "Haven't seen you in here before."

"Naota Nandaba. I just moved here from Japan." He introduced himself and Jerry nodded approvingly.

"So you're the one whose family bought George's old house? Your old man's…Kamon, right?"

"Yes…how did you…?" He asked for what felt like the umpteenth time that day and started to wonder if everyone in the county knew him already.

"Your Grandad's been up here already, asking around about baseball leagues. I put him in touch with our Sunday afternoon league; he said to tell you you're already signed up."

'Thanks Gramps, thanks for asking me first.' He thought to himself. "Thanks for the heads-up."

"My pleasure, enjoy your pizza!" Jerry waved them out and Naota took the scalding hot boxes from Jeff so he could drive. Once he was settled on his bike, Jeff started up and resumed towing him homeward.

It turned out that King Coal was on the way after all, and much closer than he'd thought too. The entrance was only half a mile north and across the street from his house. Jeff towed him through the gate, past the stacked remains of a sign built from old railroad ties. They coasted to a stop in front of the main office, a building slowly turning black from airborne coal dust. A man caked in the dust from head to toe walked out, the only clean parts of him were the whites of his eyes, a row of gleaming teeth; his boots, pants, jacket, shirt, skin, hard-hat and even hair, was covered.

"Hey Rig! Wondered when you was comin' over!" The man called, waving his clipboard. "What kept you?"

"Good evening Mr. King. Just this 'n' that, made a new friend and had to stop for pizza." Jeff nodded back at Naota, balancing pizza boxes on his handlebars.

"I'm glad to hear that. How you been? George told me about the bad news…you holdin' up alright?" Mr. King asked.

"Fine, I'm just fine." Jeff answered tersely and planted his boots firmly on either side of his bike. "Jerry said you were asking for me?"

"Oh yeah, yeah." Mr. King said in a softer tone after Jeff's sharp answer. Naota had only known Jeff for around an hour, but he could already tell that something was bothering him. But that moment wasn't a good one to ask about it. "Ever since my sign got knocked down, I've been getting all kinds of weird instrument readings, equipment's been going all wonky at times; things just ain't right."

"Hummm…now tha's real interesting…" Jeff put down his kickstand and got off his bike, boots crunching as he slowly surveyed the mine. "Have you been hitting a lot of shale lately Mr. King?"

"Well, there's a funny thing about that…" As Jeff and Mr. King talked, Naota heard an uncomfortably familiar sound, a small metallic jingle. _Clink._ He dismissed it until he heard it again, then once more. _Clink-Click!_ Now that he knew he wasn't imagining things, he looked around for the sounds source. _Ting! Click-Clack! Cling!_ The noises were coming from in front of him, and as he heard another _Clink!_ He would have sworn that the carabiner on Jeff's belt had moved. As if Jeff knew he was being watched, he unclipped the carabiner from his belt and jammed it deep into his front pocket.

"Hey Mr. King, y'all blasting today?" Rig asked.

"Now that you mention it…" Mr. King looked down at his watch, brushing some crumbs of coal from its face. "Three…two…one." _BAHHH-WHHHOOOMMMM!_ A blast of sound erupted from over the next hill, shuddering the ground under Naota's feet and rattling the office's windows. "Right on schedule."

"Huh. How's that for timing?" Rig remarked and swung himself back onto his bike. "Tell you what Mr. King, there's something going on here…I'm not quite sure what though. I'll pop in tomorrow morning 'round seven and take a better look; it's dinner time right now you see."

"Yes it is, good night and see you tomorrow." Mr. King returned to his office and Jeff towed Naota right up to his driveway. He took his two boxes of pizza and turned his dirt bike around to leave.

"Alrighty Naota, I'm heading home. Uh, like I said, real sorry about running you over. Tell you what, if George hasn't already offered, why don't you come down to the shop tomorrow morning, say 'bout nine?"

"Are you offering me a job too?" Naota asked, trying to decide if Jeff had the authority in his uncle's company to actually do that.

"We'll see how you do in your interview…" Jeff started up his Ought-Too. "But yeah! We'll find you something to do, I'm sure of it. So…see you then?"

"Yeah, I'll come on down. See you tomorrow Rig!" Naota said and Rig roared on down the hill to George's house, his pizza boxes balanced on his head. Naota went inside his own home and shared with everyone the best pizza he'd ever had.

. . .

"Jeff, is your watch broken?" George asked me as we worked our way through our pizza. "You were supposed to be here when the Nandaba's arrived."

"No, watch works just fine." I said between bites. "I was inevitably detained."

"Detained doing what? You weren't stopped by the cops were you?"

"No, and it was nothing of consequence." I said, staring at my plate as I chewed.

"Nothing of consequence? What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means he doesn't wanna talk about it, George." Tommy broke in as he slapped his first two slices together to make a pizza sandwich. "So get off his back."

"What? What'd I do?" George turned on Tommy now. "I just asked a question, and a simple one too."

"And he answered it." Tommy took a bite. "S'oh leaf 'im ah-lone."

"I'm just concerned about you Jeff." George was back to me. "You've been given this assignment, not under the best circumstances of course, but you don't seem to be taking it seriously."

"George, are you deaf?" Tommy started again. "I said leave him alone."

"Really? You're going to use that tone with me Thomas?" George snapped as he turned in his chair back to Tommy.

"Really? You're going to use that full-name trick? That was real cute when I was twelve…"

"Will you two fuckin' quit it?!" I snarled and both stopped growling at each other to look at me. "George. If I say I'm fine, it's not a coded message. It means I'm fine. Tommy. I can deal with it, don't have an ulcer. And both of you, I know you would if you could, but you don't need to fight all my battles for me."

"Alright, goddamn man…" Tommy went back to his pizza, but smiled as he did; he wasn't mad at me or George. "Grumpy…" The table then went quiet for a good five minutes.

"So did you at least meet up with the Nandaba's?" George asked slowly, testing the ice.

"Yes, actually. I ran over Naota." I said, helping myself to another slice. George dropped his own slice and Tommy choked on his water.

"What did you do?" George asked like he was afraid of the answer.

"I ran over Naota. Don't worry, he's fine."

"You ran him over?! With your dirt bike?!"

"No, with the friggin' Batmobile." I said and Tommy nearly squirted water out of his nose as he started laughing. "Yes, with the Ought-Too. I told you though, he's fine and not even mad at me. I got him set up with an interview at the shop tomorrow at nine, so we're square." That'll show George. I peeked at him out of my peripheral and saw he looked completely dumbfounded. Tommy was beside himself with his hands over his face to try and stop his laughter.

"Oh my God…you ran him over…" Tommy sighed and took a deep breath as his giggles finally subsided. "Of all the ways to start your first assignment…"

"Well. Just, well then." George harrumphed as Tommy chuckled and I merely sat. "Guess everything's working out then, isn't it?"

"By the seat of my pants, but yes." I held up my fingers to tick off my order's main bullet points. "Convince Nandaba's to move, handled expertly by our friends in the I.I.B., check. Give Kamon a job where he will be commuting and thus, a moving target difficult to track? Check. Bring Naota on board at G&R so I can train him to take care of himself if we can't be there, and so all of us can keep a better eye on him? Allllllmost check."

"Find out if Atomsk really is hiding here, prevent any Medical Mechanica invasions…" Tommy listed off two of our other goals. "Find Rig a girlfriend…oh wait…"

"Ah-ha, ah-ha, ah-ha-ha…ahhhhh…shaddap." Thanks a lot Tom, real morale boost there.

"Love you too Rig, love you too." Tommy smiled and opened the box for another slice.

"You know I only hassle you because I'm worried, right?" George asked. "I'm not the best, ask Tom, but I'm doing my best."

"Yeah, I know, I know. Sorry for being an ass." I apologized and then remembered something else important I was supposed to do. "Hey, what time is it?" George looked at the microwave's clock and declared it to be nine twenty-eight.

"About that time." He remarked while Tommy stood up and headed for the back porch. "Tommy'll call them in and you can head downstairs; the reception's best down there for some odd reason."

"Alright, wanna sit in?" I started for the basement stairs where my section of the house was.

"Oh, that's okay." George chuckled as Tommy opened the back porch door and gave a piercing, eardrum rupturing whistle. "I've given more than my share of reports and they've started blending together. You'll be fine."

"Just thought I'd offer." I stepped out of the way of four dogs as they tumbled into the house, through the hall and down the stairs. "Whoooo…okay. Let's get this over with."

. . .

After dinner and as he got ready for bed, Naota reflected on his day. With the exception of his face nearly being turned into hamburger, it had gone much better than expected. He had already made a friend who seemed to be a cool guy, was able to see some of his new home range, and of course, Hi-Way Pizza. But something was eating at him: those metallic jingles at King Coal. They felt intimately familiar, he couldn't remember exactly why, but he stubbornly knew he had heard them before. The jingles may have been caused by the vibrations from the mine's blasting; he'd certainly heard the detonations. But then why hadn't he felt anything when the jingles happened? Shouldn't he have felt the tremors then, not after? Maybe the initial tremors were too small, or he wasn't finely tuned enough, to pick them up. Thinking about it proved too tiring and he instead focused on what he was going to say at his interview the next day. It was going to be, he hoped, a big day and possibly his first day working for G&R Fabrication and Cranes. So excited he was, Naota didn't even notice the soft **_Buummmm…Bonnnnggg…_** from the Rickenbacker in the corner; and for the first time in months, he slept soundly the whole night through.

. . .

"Yes, I'm positive; it's Atomsk all right." I said then paused to have a spit. Can't talk with a mouth full of tobacco juice. "Granted, the signal wasn't the strongest I've gotten, the geology could be messin' with the reception. It's been known to happen." The Dogs yipped and whuffed in agreement, but added a little on the end. "Hey, I'm sure I'm sure! It was the size of a battleship and red as the sun. Unless Nick Fury and his flying aircraft carrier did a low pass over Philipsburg and Osceola Mills, there's not much else it could have been."

"Wooofff!"

"Exactly my point!" At least one of them agreed with me. Another pause for another spit. "So everything else is going well. The father, son and robot arrived today, be sure to thank the I.I.B. on my behalf for arranging their move. I'm working on recruiting Naota, he'll be down tomorrow for an interview."

"Brrruffff! Bark!" The four barked and thumped their tails on the floor. Happy Dogs; that means a happy me. "Rrrrrufff!" One added, pawing at the air.

"Oh, you are? I think we have a handle on things. George is working on building a locally based response force, Tommy has been expanding our network south; all the way to Lancaster…"

"Brrraarkk!" They cut me off.

"Okay, okay! Take it easy!" There's just no arguing with higher ups. Middle-management types, what're you gonna do, amiright? "If you feel that way's the best way, then send 'em over." I said, then added under my breath: "Goofy eyebrows and all…"

"Grrrrr…"

"Huh? Oh, nothing." Darn Dogs and their good hearing. "Oh, what've you heard about You-know-Who?"  
"Rrrooo…" They whined and put a paw over their noses.

"We lost track of her? Well, that's not surprising. The Universe is a big place, and she's supposed to be as slippery as a snake-oil salesman. Let me know if you learn anything new; she might just show up here you know."

"Woof! Woof!"

"Couldn't agree more."

"Ruuufff?!" Now that one caught me off guard.

"What? I'm, fine…why?"

"RRRRuffff."

"I'm managing. I mean, we were never really on what I'd call the best of terms; I hadn't seen him for at least a year. So it still feels like normal-ish I guess; hasn't sunk in yet. Mom…she's well, another discussion, for another time."

"Urrooo?" They cocked their heads and gave me the puppy eyes.

"No, that'll be all for now." I stood up and opened the sliding door to the basement patio, under the back porch. "Unless you have something else for me? No? Okay then, I'll call again once we've done some footwork. Transmission End." I killed the call and the Dogs left the basement to pad off quietly into the night. They each had their favorite spots around the property they liked to sleep and hang out in so they could see, hear or smell anything getting near the house. I decided against TV and called it a day.

In bed, I thought about the newest tenants in the collection of houses and trailers we "rent" out next door. The Nandaba's…very interesting family. Nice guys, very interesting. The Grandpa seemed harmless, but I'd bet he has a hidden, dormant side that's as tough as iron. The Dad may act a little goofy, but he is certainly not a slouch in the brains department. The Robot, it checked out as okay. It seemed they had managed to housebreak it somehow. I'd read each of their files from the I.I.B. and the G.G., the collection made for quite the literature. It was a real shame about Mrs. Nandaba, but that's life for you. The whole Mabase Incident was a real eye opener; how close Medical Mechanica had come to getting their Iron up and running. Only stopped by a twelve year old Naota. Huh. How 'bout them apples? I put out the light and got in bed, thinking about how Naota had managed to pull it off.

'Well Mr. Naota Nandaba, I hope that whatever it was that you pulled from your inner self, or N.O. channel, or what-have you, four years ago, is still with you. Because, if you're going to be working with Overwatch, and G&R for that matter, you'll need it. Guess we'll find out tomorrow.'

. . .

* * *

Hey, you, the reader! It's me again! How did I do? This chapter was fairly similar to the first edition of this story, a few parts I actually copied and pasted. Ain't nobody got time for retyping the entire thing. But hopefully this version explained things a little better, and presented characters in a different light than last time. Let me know what you think, and any suggestions, comments, concerns, random thoughts (try to make them somewhat relevant haha!), or questions, go in that little box in the corner. Thanks again for reading!


	2. Chapter 2

Well hey there Fanfiction! It's been what, two weeks? Two...long...weeks. But hey, hopefully I used that time wisely to bring you another good chapter. The last one seemed to be well received based on the reviews you left, thank you for your input! Please read, review, and most importantly, enjoy!

* * *

. . .

At eight fifty-five, Naota was waiting outside G&R's office, fending off four dogs that seemed determine to lick his face off. Everyone else had started work, their pickup trucks parked in an orderly line out front. As he waited, he got a better look at G&R company property. The lot between the Carson's house and the shop was dirt and gravel stones, crisscrossed with a tangled web of tire and caterpillar tracks. Looking out from the shop to his left, were a trio of flatbed trailers and then a duo of heavy-duty lowboy trailers past those. To his right, the beginnings of what appeared to be a boneyard. Trucks of every size, shape, make, model and function from a Ford Ranger up on blocks with a missing engine, to a rock truck with six foot tall tires. Smaller cars, broken machinery he couldn't identify, stacks of 55-gallon drums, piles of scrap lumber and metal, a bulldozer, a front-end loader and a small mobile crane were next, followed by, of all things, a mast-less sailboat up on an A frame. The collection continued as the property curved around the bend in the mountain.

The front of the shop was very much the same. The building, faded blue and rusting corrugated metal, was fifty yards deep and one hundred long. The first half was the office and the actual shop floor; visible through two forty foot wide and sixty foot tall bay doors. The second half lacked a front wall, but served as a drive in garage for two boom trucks, a gargantuan red mobile crane, two tractor-trailer trucks, another bulldozer and a backhoe. The scale of the operation seemed fairly large to Naota, with so many vehicles, so much heavy machinery and the sounds of the shop workers inside.

"Mornin' Naota." Rig had arrived with a cloud of dust up the driveway and skidded to a stop just shy of hitting the office door with the Ought-Too's back tire. "Are they bothering you?" He nodded at the dogs hopping around them, tails about to wag themselves off.

"No, they're okay." He said, pushing one off him, only to have another jump on his other side. "I'm just more of a cat person."

"You know, these dogs are excellent judges of character." Rig said, leaning his bike against one of the office's awing columns. "The fact they seem to like you is a very good sign."

"I'm sure it is…" He said, almost knocked over by a shaggy black dog that looked more wolf than dog. "But can you…"

"Oh, sorry 'bout that!" Rig apologized and gave a short, sharp whistle. "Fweet! Down sirs! Down with you!" He commanded and the dogs immediately heeled. "Off with you, g'won now!"

"Who do they belong to anyway?" He asked as the dogs separated, each headed for a point of the compass; north, south, east and west.

"Well, the little black one that looks like a walking carpet is Gus, he's George and Rita's." Rig pointed to the one headed north, for Philipsburg. "The brown lab with the bright blue crazy eyes is Bolt, he's Tommy's." Bolt was headed west, across the road and into the woods on the other side. "The beagle, hound-ish, I think, mix, is Sam. He belonged to my grandfather before Grandpap Carson passed." The brown and black mix with a beagle frame, but floppy hound ears, was headed east across G&R's property, along the ledge carved into the mountainside. "Annnd, that one headed south, with the shag carpet for fur's Piddles: The Wonder Dog, and he's mine; the loveable goof." Piddles, hearing his name, looked back and wagged his tail, then continued south towards Osceola Mills; a shaggy wolf-dog with fur as black as anthracite coal.

"Piddles?"

"That's Piddles: The Wonder Dog, to you." Rig said and opened the office door. "Guess how he got the name? I'll give you three chances and the first two don't count."

"I think I can use my imagination." Naota said and followed Rig inside the office. "Not too many different ways to take that kind of a name really."

"S'pose not. Well, hey, you're early, five minutes early. I like that." Rig checked the clock ticking on the wall.

"To be early is to be on time, to be on time is to be late…" He recited as Rig settled into the swivel chair at his desk.

"An' to be late gets you diggin' coal out back, with a spoon." Rig joked and booted up his desk's computer. "Well, don't stand 'round like a stranger. Sit on down, make yourself at home." Naota looked around, but didn't find any obvious spots to sit. All potential seats were occupied and all horizontal surfaces covered. A couch opposite the door had four cardboard boxes on it, filled with hats, gloves, neon green shirts and blue jumpsuits. There was another office chair but it had a milk crate full of heavy nylon straps on it. A bookshelf on the office's wall, to his right, was filled with more boxes, odd lengths of PVC pipe, hard hats, reference and shop manuals, a book on transmissions, and a collection of welding textbooks. The office contained two desks, one buried under stacks of yellowing papers, coffee mugs, overflowing ashtrays, the guts of a disassembled power drill, empty tobacco tins and a box of M80 fireworks. Rig sat behind the other desk, checking something on the computer with his knee-high boots propped up on the desk's corner. Behind him, a drip coffee machine perched on a mini-fridge gurgled and filled the small space with its aroma. On either side of the fridge was a door. The right one, made of grey painted steel, had a bolted on sign that warned anyone reading it to "KEEP OUT. THIS MEANS YOU." The other door, simple wood, had a piece of paper taped to it, scrawled with "The Throne Room."

"Just throw that crate of straps next to the door, we'll need 'em later. Real sorry about the mess, we've been too busy lately to bother with housekeeping and the maid wasn't in the budget anymore so we had to fire her…" Rig turned as the coffee machine beeped and poured himself a mug. "Want some coffee? It's Columbian…"

"No, I'm fine thanks you." Naota said as he sat down and gazed around the room. Its walls were covered with news clippings of events and articles about the surrounding area, pictures of G&R members at worksites, driving excavators and cranes, showing off their completed welding projects. Several more were of different people racing home-built stock cars on dirt tracks, someone racing a dirt-bike; someone awfully Rig-like. Copies of permits, licenses and certifications were framed and hung carefully with pride in neat, prominent rows. Maps of mines, gas and oil fields, Centre and Clearfield counties and one of the entire state of Pennsylvania that measured six feet across and four feet tall, filled in the rest of the empty space. "You guys sure do have a lot of pictures on the wall."

"Uh-huh, that we do. These are all good memories for us, snapshots of happier times." Rig pointed out different ones while he added enough cream and sugar to his coffee to turn it into a slurry. "I'm in a couple of 'em. That's the first dragline I helped take apart and move, then put back together. There's me, Uncle George and Cousin Tom at the county's fracking site…that's all of us sitting on the new boom truck. Well, it was new to _us_ anyway. The dirt-bike one's me at Rocket Raceway, down in Three Springs; finished second that day."

"What about this one?" Naota pointed to an 8x11 printout, tacked to the corkboard on Rig's right, next to the desk. It was a highly contrasted scene with the background pitch black and the forefront occupied by a raging car fire. It was sideways on a dirt racetrack and the driver was halfway out the window, his suit beginning to smoke. "It looks like…an '84 Fiero?"

"It _was_ , an '84 Fiero, and an old junker one at that." Rig clarified.

"But _why,_ is it on _fire_?" Naota peered closer at the picture. "It looks like it's on a dirt track somewhere."

"It was. That picture represents my first, and last, attempt at stock car racing." Rig admitted, grinning sheepishly.

"What happened? It's burning like a Viking funeral."

"Fiero's had badly cast connecting rods that'll snap if your oil level gets low. I took a hit early on in the race and started leaking oil. Top that off with revving the engine waaaay more than it was designed for, for way too long…and…well…" He gestured at the picture. "A rod breaks, oil goes everywhere and all up in your business, and your engine blows up."

"Where'd you get one of those anyway? Sorry about your car blowing up, but why'd you pick that one to race anyway?"

"Because it was the magic F-word: FREE. I got it from the junk yard, paid like two hundred to take it off their hands." He stated matter-of-factly and took a sip of coffee. "What's so funny?"

"Heh-heh, I just thought, with all the tools and fabrication equipment you probably have on hand, you could've fixed your car so it wouldn't go off like a roman candle."

"You would think that…but when you're fifteen and just got your leaner's permit, you don't!" Rig sighed and leaned back in his chair. "Learning experiences…" He trailed off, then the phone rang. "Sorry man, gotta take this. Good morning, G&R Fabrication and Cranes, this is Jeff speaking." As Rig talked, Naota kept gazing around at some of the smaller pictures he had missed earlier. A small polaroid next to Rig's desk, in a small frame with actual glass protecting it, caught his eye. It was slightly faded, but showed a man and woman in their mid-twenties; both with deep, dark brown hair just like Rig's. They were standing in front of a black jeep and what looked like George's house; under construction. When Rig had finished with the call, Naota asked him who the picture was of.

"Oh. That one huh." Rig said quietly and stared at the photo for a moment, making not a sound. "Those are my parents. This one's from the early eighties, when George's house was getting built. It was actually my grandfather's at the time, but George owns it now."

"Sooo…they, live there too, your parents? I saw you went into that house last night after you dropped me off."

"No, they ah, they don't." Rig said in an even smaller voice that cracked as he spoke. "They're…divorced. So I stay with George and Aunt Rita for now, best that way." He concluded and his coffee mug rattled as he placed it on his desk. Naota was about to ask a little more, if Rig ever saw his parents, but thought better of it.

"Eh, that's really nice of your Uncle." He offered to bridge the silence.

"Yeah, he's a real bleeding-hearted saint." Rig grumbled, then cleared his throat. "Ahem! Anyhow, so you wanna do this interview or what?" His question signaled any discussion on the polaroid couple was over.

"Yes, of course. I'm ready whenever you are."

"Alright…ahmmmm…shit, I've never had to do one of these before…" Rig lolled his head around on his shoulders, leaned even further back so he was almost horizontal, all while tapping his hands on his chair's armrests and staring at the ceiling for inspiration. He swiveled his head back down so that his chin rested on his chest and asked: "Throwing the ball to you, 'cause I can't think of anything…what can you do?"

"Wow, uh, well, what's the job involve?"

"Hummm…lemme see if I can make it easier on both of us. Can you weld?"

"No."

"Ever used an acetylene torch or a plasma cutter?"

"Nope."

"How about driving any kind of a big truck, something with more than four wheels; or anything with tracks?"

"Sorry, I don't even have a learner's permit. Just mopeds."

"Know anything about HAM or CB radios, anything with electronics; like pulling stuff apart to see how it works then putting it back together?"

"Not really, no."

"Pyrotechnics? Chemicals? Ever mess around with fireworks or anything that goes bang?"

"Definitely not!" Naota said, then added. "Do you guys get to do that kind of stuff? Seems out of a fab shop's focus."

"In a way, and more than you think." Rig evaded. "I think, there's hope for you though, despite your lack of qualifications. Would you consider yourself a person of utmost integrity and trustworthiness?"

"I would."

"Do you react well to quickly changing scenarios, hazardous work environments and potentially hostile customers?"

"Hostile customers?!"

"Some of the people we've dealt with…aren't, ah, aren't what you'd call _nice_ people; competitors and upset customers alike. We've seen and had tires slashed, equipment broken or stolen, tools thrown at us…" He stopped, seeing the growing look of horror on Naota's face. "It's not an everyday thing! Little accidents, few and far between! Why did I bring that up?"

"Well, if you say so…but those things shouldn't be a problem."

"Oh? Oh, good. Thought I'd lost you for a secon' there. Almost done. Now, you're willing to learn anything and everything we teach you; you'll be an information sponge?"

"Of course, especially if it's lessons on how to not have tools thrown at me!"

"Don't worry, we offer full courses on wrench avoidance, based on the DUCK principle. Last thing…are you willing to get that mop of yours cut?"

"I…guess?" The question stumped him as to why it mattered. Sure, he'd let his hair go a little long, it was the style back in Japan; maybe not here in Pennsylvania though. It was almost to his eyebrows in the front and down to his collar in the back. "Why?"

"Long hair like that gets caught in lathes. Long hair gets snarled on cables, hooked on equipment, in your eyes, and, in one unfortunate accident that Mike still hasn't emotionally recovered from yet, set on fire. It can also get you called a dirty hippy around here…and you _really_ don't want that!"

"When you put it that way, I don't really have a choice. Get scalped, burned and called a Hippy…no thanks!"

"Excellent! Glad to hear it!" Rig clapped his hands together. "And like that, you're hired! Congratulations to you, Apprentice Naota!" He opened a drawer in the desk and pulled out a slip of papers. "Here's the terms. Ten bucks an hour, that's just so the math's easy, payday's on every Friday. Work week's Monday through Friday, sometimes weekends, eight to five with an hour for lunch at noon. Weekends aren't bad, usually real easy-type stuff, but don't expect overtime or double-time, or even time and a half really. We'll spot you four official shirts for on the road business, gotta represent yah know. Ah, two hats, two pair of gloves, box of soapstones, you'll need some eye pro…what size boot you wear?"

"I'm sorry, huh?" Naota blinked as Rig rattled off G&R's terms and conditions.

"Shoe size man, focus!"

"Tens."

"Perfect!" Rig picked up the paper, checked that Naota had made all the appropriate marks and stowed the papers in the desk. He then walked over to the cardboard boxes and began throwing clothes over his shoulder. "Here's yer hats…shirts…" He was elbow deep in boxes, tossing their contents into a growing mound on Naota's lap, chest and face. "You'll need a jumpsuit or two as well…here's one…got all that?"

"Think so." Naota couldn't see over the pile in his arms. "Now what?"

"Well, when can you start working, doing anything today?"

"Not really, this was all I had planned."

"Then you'll start right now. Go to the house, there's a pair of hand-me-down boots in exactly your size waiting next to the door. Have Aunt Rita cut your hair next." Rig opened the office door and held it open for him. "Welcome to the team, glad to have you onboard Naota."

"Glad to be here." He said and Rig cracked his first real smile that day.

. . .

Rig's Aunt Rita was a short, full-bodied woman with equally short blonde hair; but no shortage of chatter.

"Oh, you must be the new guy! Naota right?" She asked, snipping scissors and a comb in one hand, trimmer in the other. "So glad to meet you, I was in Maryland visiting my girls and missed your move in; we should've had a house warming party. It's not too late though to have a belated one though!"

"Eh…that's okay, really." He was directed into the empty half of the house's carport and to a stool, over a square of newspapers. "So, uh, do you cut hair for a living?"

"Tch, goodness no! This's just, well, more of a hobby really." She giggled and draped a towel over his shoulders. "Yah know, just for fun."

'Great. An amateur enthusiast.' He thought as he heard scissors begin to snip. 'At least it's just hair, it'll grow back…I hope.'

"I do all the guys hair that work for George. Tommy, Jeff, Shifty, Josh, Mike, Johnny, everyone. Well, 'cept George; he's goin' bald you know…"

"I didn't. Do they all get the same cut? I haven't met any of the other guys yet."

"Uh-huh. Everyone gets the same, it's kind of a regulation thing, like the Army or something."

"You're not cutting it that short are you?" He reached up to feel how much, or little, he had left. Rita merely tsked him and swatted his hand away from his head.

"Oh just settle or I might accidentally take off an ear…now let's see if I can fix this spot…"

. . .

While Naota sat in G&R's barbershop and got himself an Overwatch regulation haircut, George, Tommy and I had a quick meeting in the office.

"I see Naota's in the hot seat." Tommy glanced out the window. "So, then the interview went well?"

"Here's the papers to prove it." I held up Naota's employment contract. "He's officially a G&R Fabrication Apprentice now."

"And since G&R's an Overwatch front…" George added as he poured himself coffee and sipped it, black. "That practically makes him Overwatch too."

"With none of the authority, powers or responsibility, but yeah." I agreed. "And hey, we can't forget to pat ourselves on the back George. G&R may be a front, but it sure is a lucrative front; ain't it Tommy?"

"We're only in the second quarter and already up five percent from last year's overall net." Tommy rattled off, having his own coffee, cream, no sugar.

"I know we kept you around for a reason." George grinned at Tommy. "All those accounting classes in college seem to have sunk in."

"Uh-huh. Spreadsheets and ROI's are reeeeaaallll useful running a crane to set barn trusses..." He said, had a sip, then added: "Oh. Or fighting Medical Mechanica."

"We're glad you're home none the less." George said and turned back to me. "Soooo…now what hot-shot? Naota works with us. Congrats. What's your next move?"

"I need…jobs. Off-campus and…out of the shop jobs." I said slowly, trying to prioritize the laundry list of things I had to teach Naota. "He's new, doesn't know the ground, where the good and bad roads are, landmarks, where we have contacts…"

"Where the cops are set up, the speed traps, which lights have cameras, which corners in town they've set up microphones in the crosswalk button…" Tommy added, underscoring the brave, new little world we called home.

"Those too, especially those."

"Hmmmm…okay, okay…" George was twisting the bolt-like ring on his middle finger, he was thinking hard. "Good choice Rig, very good. You're learning to think ahead, past the end of your nose. Alright, let me check our calendar and I'll have you three on the road in the hour."

"Three?"

"You, Naota, and Tommy." George said and opened Excel on the computer. "What?"

"I gotta have a babysitter? No offense Tommy…"

"Some taken." He said, engrossed in an old Maxim mag.

"But c'mon George, really?"

"Jeff, you haven't been an actual Overwatch agent for even a full week yet. Tommy has twelve years of experience. With the interest M-M's taken in Naota, we cannot afford to drop our guard when we have to venture out of the zone we control. Also, _M.I.B._ never travel alone, so neither shall we." He warned and Tommy and I shuddered at the mention of those three letters; the initials of our boogeymen. "Ah, here we go. Scomi needs tanks, scaffolds and pumps hauled to Mr. Dahl. He has an exploratory operation going on past Williamsport, sent me a message and wants us to talk immediately and in person. This'll be perfect for the new kid's first day."

"Are we expected George?" Tommy asked as he _Tap! Tap! Tapped!_ His tobacco tin.

"You are…now." George shot Scomi and Mr. Dahl emails and that was that. "Now, before you run off, how was King's?"

"That well turned out to be dry." I reported. I had visited that morning, scouring the miles long strip mine. "I went out and took a good look, my carabiner didn't so much as twitch. I don't know where Atomsk is, but I know for sure where he isn't."

"Has King been hitting a lot of shale lately?" Tommy asked as he and George both fiddled with their own talismans: Tommy his wallet chain and George his middle finger ring. "That could be it."

"He said he has, a really thick layer of it. Does shale always mess with N.O. signals George?"

"Yes, it's been a massive pain in our asses over the years. Shale does something to the signal where it gets all scrambled. You can get false positives that are off the charts, or they're so bad you might as well be blindfolded."

"Is that why M-M has a history with this state then? Because they know the signals can be distorted?"

"I would think that's at least part of it, maybe not all." George theorized. "But it's certainly a contributing factor."

"That and M-M likes places like this." Tommy put in his two cents. "Quiet, low-profile, out of the way and with little attention from our governments. No one cares about Coal Country unless the EPA's involved. We could like, I dunno, start a war here and no one would notice."

"Well let's hope that won't become a reality." George said. "Things are interesting enough already as is."

"Speaking of interesting, I heard a rumor about Roman's Mine." I said, wanting to know if George or Tommy had heard anything of the same. "Know how Piddles likes to hang out in front of Grizzly's?"

"Yeah, what of it? What did the pup hear?"

"That someone's buying Roman's out, someone from far out of state. Roman's been having all kinds of problems; sabotage from the sounds of it. They haven't been able to keep running long enough to turn a profit before something breaks again or someone quits or just…disappears."  
"You've been reading those Tom Clancy novels again, haven't you Rig?" George asked. "Conspiracy theories…conspiracy theories everywhere."

"Now come on George, maybe Rig has something." Tommy defended. "Piddles is a good dog, hears lots of good things. I've been past Roman's a few times lately and, well, it looks rough. Like, things aren't going so well. There are lots of things breaking down, people are going missing. Who's responsible, who knows?"

"Hmmm…if that is true, it's certainly not good." George's brow furrowed and he pursed his lips. "It may be, and I hope it is, something completely unrelated to us. But, I'll add it to my list of things to look into."

"How's that list coming?" Tommy asked. "That local response force you want to form?"

"I have a few interested parties." George said. "I've been trying to avoid the obvious groups, ones that are too politicized and…ahm…outspoken, with themselves. But I'm making progress."

"It'll be nice to have something in our back pocket if things get out of hand." I said, remembering the reports of M-M activity around the galaxy. They had done a complete one-eighty from their usual strategy on some planets. Instead of quietly assimilating and rotting the planet's defenses from the inside out, they were simply attacking in a more traditional, head-on style. It meant either they had found some new vigor in themselves, or they were getting desperate. Both were equally bad.

"Again, let's hope it doesn't come to that." George said and checked the clock. "Well, if that's all, clock's runnin' boys. Go out and make us some money!" Tommy left first to start up the boom truck we'd need and I was on my way to follow. "Hold up Jeff."

"S'up?"

"I know you're not incompetent. But you're still learning and it's a very, _very_ dangerous world we're living in. Besides…" George took off his glasses and lay them on the desk so he could rub his face with his hands. "He wasn't just your father, he was also my brother. One family member, no matter their standing or relationship, is still one family member too many."

"Yeah…that's true." I mumbled. "I understand."

"Good. Now it looks like Rita's had her fun, so rescue Naota and get on truckin'; give my regards to Mr. Dahl when you see him today."

"Will do, see you later." I closed the office door behind me and headed for one of our Kennworth trucks. As I climbed in and started up, I had this nagging irk at the back of my mind that something was just…off.

'Just a little sight-seeing tour for the new guy'. I thought as I backed up and hooked up with a flatbed trailer. 'Just another normal, boring day. Nothin's gonna happen…right? Right. What am I worryin' about?'

. . .

Feeling like a freshly shorn sheep, Naota thanked Rita and checked himself in her hand mirror. Despite his worst fears, she had actually done rather well. Next he put on the already broken-in steel toe boots waiting for him by the door. His first steps in them felt like he was learning how to walk all over again but with his feet encased in concrete; each boot must have weighed ten pounds. He left the bulk of his new uniforms with Rita for when he returned and switched his blue polo for an official G&R neon green tee. Properly attired, he looked for, and found, Rig pulling up in a semi truck; Tommy behind him with a boom truck.

"Climb on up man! We're goin' on a field trip!" Rig yelled out the window and Naota hauled himself into the cab. "Don't mind the mess. Makes it fell more…homey, I think."

"That's not your coffee…is it?" He asked, pointing to the sludge-like fluid in a cup on the console. He sat down and started clearing some foot space by shifting a carpet of invoices, old maps, a set of jumper cables, gloves and hard hat…and lottery tickets. "And how many lottery tickets did you buy?"

"The coffee, and lottery tickets, are Shifty's." Rig said as they turned onto the paved road and headed north for Chester Hill. Rig picked up the cup, opened his window and emptied the cup's contents onto the pavement. "Ssssuuhhhhggghhh!...P-too!" He used the cup as a spittoon, haucking a mouthful of tobacco into it, then replaced the cup back on the console.

"Charming and sophisticated as always Rig." Naota dryly remarked as Rig tapped his tobacco tin and placed a fresh plug in his lip. "Are these all really Shifty's?" He asked about someone he had not yet, but was sure to soon, meet.

"Yeah…I'm ah real hoity-toity kinda guy, ain't I?" He grinned. "Nah, yah see, Shifty's well known in every single Skippy's gas station in the state, that man's gotta have his cup of joe and another chance at strikin' it rich. As you can see…" Rig kicked aside a wad of tickets that had its way under the clutch pedal. "He's still chasing that jackpot."

"No kidding. The amount he's spent on these tickets probably matches any amount he's won so far."

"If he was so lucky, yes."

"So what're we doing today?" He asked, excited for his first and sudden day at work.

"Real simple for your first day, just dippin' your toes in. We're hauling parts for Scomi, they supply stuff for all sorts of gas and oil drillers. Pick it up, load it and truck it, drop it off and come home. Since, as the older guys put it, we're young with good, healthy knees and backs, you'll help me secure everything."

"That doesn't sound too bad, I can do that." Naota said as they pulled into Scomi's parking lot, piles of stacked equipment waiting for them and more on the way via front-end loaders.

"Good. Hop on down as we'll go over the rules." Rig said as they stopped and the air brakes whooshed and let off pressure.

"Rules? There are rules?"

"For cranes and equipment, for working with G&R, and life in general too I suppose." Rig explained as they started hooking straps onto the trailer's deck. "Okay, the rules are real easy. There's five of 'em, so not too many to remember. First, always mind your fingers and toes; watch where your body's at and what it's doing. Those boots of yours may stop a dropped hammer, but will not save you if that ten thousand gallon tank drops on your feet. If anything, the steel cap in your boots will just cut your toes right the hell off."

"I see." He said and felt himself pale a little at the thought of his toes being violently severed. "I'll remember that, what else?"

"Second is if it weighs more than ten pounds and it's going to fall, then just let it; don't be a hero. Third should be obvious: Never, ever, under any circumstances, stand under anything suspended, and be aware of your surroundings at all times. Fourth, always use your manly and out-door voice while on a job."

"If my foot is going to get smashed or toes cut off, you'd like to know right?"

"We generally appreciate some warning before you start screaming bloody murder, yes. Lastly, and very important, whenever you're climbing on something, hooking up or are in the air, maintain a minimum of three contact points at all times."

"Seems simple enough."

"Are you two done flirting?!" Tommy called from the boom truck's controls. "I'm all set whenever you are!"

"Okay! Naota, for now you'll help us get this tank centered on the trailer and strapped down." Rig pulled two heavy nylon straps from the truck's cab, each with a quick release carabiner, and clipped them onto the brackets in his belt.

"Hey, is this why they call you Rig? Those brackets?"

"Like a sailor in the topsails, swinging through the ships rigging…" Rig explained. "I've always loved high places, heights and falling don't bother me."

"Well you know, it's not the fall that kills you, but that sudden stop at the bottom."

"That may be…" Rig agreed as Tommy swung the boom around and dropped the main hook to the pavement so Rig could put his foot in it and be hoisted to the top of the tank. "But what a rush it could be on the way down."

. . .

"Hey there everyone tuning in! This's Beau's Beats Buffett! That's right, the Triple-B is back and better than ever. There's just too many good tunes out there to play just one set of the same-old, same-old. So I'm serving up as many as I can: Rad Rock 'n' Roll, Classic Country, and those Sweetly Soulful Rhythm and Blues. For appetizers today, let's hear all about those Rock 'n' Roll Hootchie-Koos."

We'd been makin' good time as we rolled down Highway 80. I'd been pointing out things to Naota as we went: where different towns were and the names of ones we went through, landmarks for reference points if he was lost and needed to get his bearings. He had dug out one of the many maps in the truck and was scanning it, checking our progress as I challenged him with questions.

"Okay, if you had to get home _right now_ , what's the fastest way?"

"Uhh…turn around at the next exit, take eighty west, get off at exit sixty-two…"

"Ah, ah, ah! Stop cheatin'!" I looked over and saw him peekin' at the map. "Put down your crutch. Exit sixty-two…"

"Then ninety-nine south, right onto three-two-two to…Port Matilda…through Black Moshannon and into Philipsburg, left onto Presqueisle, down through Chester Hill, then home." He finished without the aid of his map. Naota sure was a quick study, which was making my job all that much easier.

"What if sixty-two's blocked, like for construction?"

"Keep going to one fifty-eight and south to US two-three-oh, then same as before."

"Ah, but you have to take a detour at Unionville, two-two-ought's blocked."

"Why's it blocked?" He asked, probably wondering if I was being serious or messing with him.

"Just is, don't matter why."

"Oh come on, now you're just trying to get me to mess up!"

"Okay, uh, you're…being chased by…agents of SPECTRE and…another pair of them cut you off at the intersection, forcing you to turn."

"Sooo…I'm James Bond now?" Careful Naota...

"Sure, why not?"

"Which Bond girl do I get?" Annnd…now we're into delusions of grandeur.

"Is it that important?"

"VERY…important." Well, if you say so…

"Fine…uh, what's her face…you get Ursula Andress; you're welcome."

"Okay, that works." Naota's a serious and down-to-Earth guy, eh George? Noooo…say it ain't so. "Turn onto PA-five-oh-four, follow it into Philipsburg, same again from there."

"Annnd, while we're out on a limb, suppose SPECTRE blew up the Walton street bridge?" Hey, it could happen. It's in the realm of possibilities.

"Hard left, get onto the Tyrone Pike, follow it to Church of Christ First, right onto Phoenix, then Rushtown Road annndd…left onto the main road and home."

"Very good, you have been paying attention." I congratulated, both Naota and myself. Part 1-A down, Part 1-B through F and then Part 2 through 10, also A through F, to go. Oh boy. At least the music was good.

 _Rock and Roll, Hoochie-Koo! (Rock and Roll, Hoochie-Koo!)  
Lordy mama, light my fuse! (Light my fuse) _

_Rock and Roll, Hoochie-Koo! (Rock and Roll, Hoochie-Koo!)  
Drop on out and spread the news...*_

"Hey, I know I've been askin' you a ton of questions, so for a change of pace, here's another question. What exactly…is a Rock 'n' Roll Hootchie-koo?"

"Something…that if you were to spend the night with…" He slowly theorized. "You'll probably have to take pills to make the itching and burning stop."

"HA! That's a good one, sounds about right. Where'd you think that one up, doing stand-up in your spare time?"

"Nah. I just kinda hang out, play a lot of bass."

"Bass? Really…whattah yah got?"

"A Rickenbacker 4001, left handed and midnight blue…what about you?"

"Well…" I started off slowly. "I recently came into a fifty-six Gibson LP Standard. It's not playable at the moment." I explained, stating the most basic problem with my inherited heirloom. I'm not sure what, or who for that matter, happened to that guitar, but they did an absolute number on it. The internals alone were going to take a week to fix.

"That really sucks, having a guitar and not being able to play it. Can it get fixed?"

"Oh, I'll get it up and playing, don't you worry about that."

"How'd you come into an LP anyway?"

"My Dad." That was all I was going to say about it too. "So you said yours was a lefty…but you're right handed?" For my sake, I had to change the topic.

"Oh, I am right handed." He held up his hands to show off the callouses collected on his fingers. "It was pretty hard to play at first, but a lot easier actually than pulling a Hendrix and learning how to play it upside down."

"That'd be something to see, if you could pull it off. Know any good songs, or did you get those callouses playing scales?"

"Heellllll no! I know by heart: Money, Another one bites the Dust, Seven Nation Army, Cocaine, Sunshine of your Love, Smoke on the Water and Highway Star, Ramble On…" He got into full flow as he ticked off his personal set-list. George had said Kamon described Naota as 'down-to-Earth and serious.' He was certainly right about the serious when it came to him talking about music. He got this bright look that lit up his entire face, the pace of his speech quickened, he talked with his hands! That's always a good indicator when you've hit on something that they're really passionate about. "One of these Days, Mississippi Queen, annnnnd…that's about it."

"I gotta tell you Naota, it's really refreshing to meet someone with such excellent musical tastes, especially in this day and age."

"Do you too wish you could've been our age during the sixties and seventies too; to experience the music when it was fresh?"

"Hell yeah man! That's where it was at, real music, not this…peddled pop…shit."

"Hey, did you hear about…"

"Yo Rig, this's your conscience speaking." Tommy interrupted by calling in over the CB.

"Okay Conscience." I played along as I picked up. "What's the good word of the day?"

"The good word is left, as in you're gonna take the next one, that'll be the access road." In our talking, Naota and I hadn't been following along on the map and were already coming up on the job site.

"Roger that Conscience, any other pearls of wisdom?"

"Uhhh…yeah! You should really buy your cousin a double cheeseburger…and a coke too. It'll be, ah, good feng-shui, no, wait, Karma! Good Karma! It'll be good Karma, yeah."

"Well, Conscience, tell my cousin that he's a grown man who can buy his own double cheeseburgers." I joked as we made the turn off asphalt to bulldozed dirt. "How about that?"

"Nuh-uh, very bad. Not good. I see…a, shadow and imminent conflict in your very near future. Something from across the stars." Tommy could've been a real fortune teller if he wanted to. He had the drama and hyperbole nailed.

"I see…"

"No, _I see._ You, _perceive_ , what I see." And now he's a philosopher too. Why must my relatives all be USDA certified nuts?

"Fair 'nough. Maybe if you gaze into your all seeing eye, it can find us one of those food trucks that hang 'roung gaswells and you'll get your cheeseburger there."

"Sounds like ah plan, mah man." The normal Tommy came back as we pulled into the marshalling and offloading area; a two hundred by two hundred yard pad of golf ball sized stones and filled with trucks of every shape, size, make and payload.

"Hop-to Naota, same's at Scomi's, but in reverse." I hopped out of the truck and looked around for a foreman. Naota joined me, he head on a neck craning swivel that contained owl-large eyes. "So…a natural gas drilling site…whattah yah think?"

. . .

Naota couldn't believe the scale of a natural gas drilling operation. It appeared to go on for miles, snaking its way through the forest, climbing ridges as bulldozers carved a quarter-mile wide swath to accommodate the operations. Every five hundred yards was another four acre patch that made up each drilling rig platform. Men in blue jumpsuits and yellow hardhats scurried about, their activity bordering on frantic. Each separate drill site reminded him of an anthill kicked open. Boom trucks, forklifts, bulldozers, backhoes, front-end loaders and dozens of other vehicles roared and rumbled by as the other semi-trucks offloaded everything from steel I-beams, fracking chemicals, to prefabricated worker barracks and everything in between. It was an overwhelming spectacle of industry and Naota found his mouth gaping in awe.

"Quite the sight, ain't it?" Tommy asked as they waited for Rig to get himself hooked up. "This's a small one. They just hit a potential pocket no more'n a month ago."

"All this in a month?" He looked around at the small city scratched into a remote mountaintop. "How? We had factories back in Mabase, but nothing to this scale in such a short time."

"Lots of frantic, nail-biting, worrisome months of planning, followed by twenty-four hour a day, back-breaking work." Tommy explained, then paused to spit tobacco. "Natural gas's this state's new coal. Everyone wants a slice, well, tank of it. Cheap, efficient, plentiful. People'll cross galaxies to get first crack at it."

"Galaxies huh?" Tommy's choice of word briefly stirred something in Naota's mind. "Like what, aliens or something?"

"Yeah, sure. Why not?" Tommy grinned at him, that Carson gleam alit in his eyes. "Think of the odds. There are thousands of stars in the night sky, some of those are galaxies with millions of suns, with untold more planets orbiting them."

"I'm with you so far…what of it?"

"Well, what're the odds that, with potentially millions of planets, and the universe being billions of years old…what are the odds that only this…" Tommy picked up one of the stones they were standing on. "Little rock…" He held up the stone. "Out of allllll of these…" He gestured to the rest of the pad, covered in millions of similar stones. "Has life, intelligent or otherwise?"

"I guess the odds would be pretty slim to none." He answered and Tommy let the stone fall. "Makes you feel kinda small though."

"That it does." Tommy agreed and took a palm-sized metal tin from his pocket. By flicking his wrist, he gave it three sharp taps with his index finger. "But it also means that this planet isn't it. We're not done, we still have growing to do, exploration to undertake, and that's really something to look forward to, isn't it?"

"It really is. I mean, who knows what all could be out there?" It was a thought that had occurred to him many times, how he had never asked Haruko anything about her home planet. How far away was it? What was the climate like? Was the gravity more or less than Earth's? Where did she get her abilities, the bass, her Vespa and its capabilities? How many others like her were there, if any? Even how in the hell N.O. worked would have been a valid question; seeing she had opened an N.O. portal in his head. And while he was on that thought, of that portal, it had been absolutely devoid of activity since Haruko had left. Not one single protrusion, horn, a bump, a lump even. Nothing. But why?

. . .

"Very well then. Next item on the list?"

"Yes sir, the…" The young, bespectacled Aide shuffled his notes. "Earth, operation. A new tactic we're trying in light of recent shortages and events."

"Bring it up on screen please." One of The Board ordered. The Aide rearranged some data on his personal touchscreen and slid the relevant icon to splash across a wall-to-wall projection. A spinning, real-time Earth was displayed with its greens and blues, bullet points of operational details listed beside it.

"Ah, this one. We tried last in…what's that land mass?" Another Board member pointed with a hand-held laser. "This crooked shaped one here?"

"Japan sir, an industrial town called Mabase. It was very promising, an Activity Level of just nineteen percent and practically zero percent in probability of local pushback."

"That's the one where the GSPB and IIB, and Atomsk, screwed us, wasn't it?"

"Not entirely. They were, the GSPB and IIB involved and both sent agents. Atomsk was of course the operation's death knell, but the one who rang that bell was…" The Aide sifted aside Earth and brought up a grainy, static-fringed photo. "This boy. He was the one that this GSPB officer, Haruko Haruhara…" Another picture, her official GSPB academy graduation photo; red uniform, peaked hat and all. "Used to create an N.O. channel. His image was captured from one of our Assassin Class unit's live feed. It was defeated, along with all the others we sent to close the portal and ultimately to attempt activating the plant."

"Ahhhh…this kid." The Head of The Board sighed. "I remember him, that little shit. We're keeping tabs on him, yes?"

"Yes, but the IIB has been able to relocate him, most likely to the protection of an Overwatch unit."

"Overwatch? Didn't we just pummel a station of theirs not too long ago?"

"Yes sir. They did however, put up a tremendous fight."

"Bah, we won. End of story. Overwatch units are nothing more than their planet's collection of stupid hicks that don't know when to quit." The Head scoffed. "So we have two things on our plate. This new operation on Earth first. Where is it, what's going on?"

"It's located on a continent called North America, in a state called Pennsylvania. The area has an Activity Level of only eleven percent, but…"

"Eleven percent?!" Another Board member interrupted. "With an eleven percent rating, why didn't we just go to this, Pennsylvania first instead of screwing around in Japan?"

"Because the potential for organized and _violent_ resistance from locals is significantly higher, about seventy five percent." The Aide explained. "Our operation is more likely to go undetected, but if it IS found out, blow-back from locals has the potential to be…disastrous."

"Then we'll just have to be very careful, won't we?" The Head asked as more of an order than a question, eliciting nods from all present. "Very good, now this…Nnnnaota? Nandaba, the kid from the Assassin's camera, with the portal. Suggestions? Thoughts?"

"Termination, immediately!" Was the first opinion offered and it was received with much fanfare, Board members cheering him on. "He's too much of a potential liability! A loose cannon portal, just running around unchecked?! And that's not even considering if the boy figures out how to…"

"Okay, you've made your case, settle down." The Head cut him off. "You didn't hear me arguing, did you? I agree. I actually spoke with the Security Council this morning; they've also taken a vested interest in this kid…know why? He scares them. They've never seen a channel so powerful. I only asked because I wanted your thoughts. And based on them, and the Security Council, I think termination's the only option." He turned to the Aide. "Send something through, something expendable but still can get the job done. See if the Industrial Section has anything they want to run a combat test on."

"Sir, shouldn't we just send an Assassin Class?"

"The thought occurred to me, but we don't know what is waiting on the other side. Best to send an affordable sacrifice as a scout. If it actually accomplishes its mission, all the better. Agreed?" The rest of The Board nodded in accord and The Head stood clasped his hands. "Very well! If that's everything…dismissed! Send that unit right away, let's not waste time."

"Certainly sir, I'm sending a message to the facility now." The Aide confirmed, typing away on his touchscreen. "There, it has been ordered and they're readying a unit for combat." The rest of The Board gathered their papers and documents, then filed out back to their respective offices.

"Excellent…excellent." The Head opened the shades to gaze down upon a metropolis of factories and manufacturing, spreading from both sides of his vision and all the way to the horizon. "I cannot, and thus, Medical Mechanica cannot, suffer a loose end to live."

. . .

"Hey, we're all done, so can you get everything put away and the boom secured?" I asked Naota as a loader whisked away the last centrifuge pump. "Tommy an' I gotta talk to the man in charge, we'll be right back."

"Sure, no problem!" Naota said and Tommy and I continued up the hill to the main office.

"Ah! Thomas! Jeff! Guten Tag! So very pleased to see you, come into ze air unt out of ze sun ja?" Mr. Dahl, a balding, middle-aged German with a keen mind, ice-blue eyes and the energy of a man half his age, greeted us at his office door. "Come, come! The cold ist escaping."

"Holy Man, it feels like a freezer in here!" Tommy said as Mr. Dahl sealed the icebox that was his office.

"Ja, but I'd rather be cold than varm. Zee mind ist like a computer, verks best vhen cool." Mr. Dahl explained and sat behind his desk. "So, vat brings ze Carsons to mein office? Something besides verk, I suppose?"

"Work, but not gas related. You contacted my Uncle George that you wanted to speak with us, something about a visitor?" I asked, getting to the real reason we were there.

"Ahhhh…ja, ja, I recall." Mr. Dahl tapped his temple and his smile fell. "Vee did haff a visitor, most curious."

"We're all ears Mr. Dahl." I said and took out the little book and I carry in my shirt pocket for notes. "Ready when you are."

"He vos dressed very conservative, all black; but with a white shirt. Black tie, hat, trousers, shoes, coat, suit unt glasses. Never I see his eyes…unt I cannot recall his face…"

"So what'd he want?" I asked as Tommy and I exchanged a worried glance; one of our bad dreams seemed like it might be coming to life.

"To buy everyzing. Mein land, mein verkers, mein equipment, unt mein company! He vas most insistent, made zees, zees…impossible offers! Too high to be true! I told him he vas, ah, verruckt! Unt told him to leave unt never show himself again. Know vat he said to zat?"

"I can only imagine."

"Zat he vould be back…unt!" Mr. Dahl's voice dropped to a whisper. "Unt I haff made zee greatest mistake off mein life!" He concluded with a dramatic flourish of suspense.

"…Annnnnnd…?"

"…Unnnnt…vat?"

"That's it?"

"Vat do you mean, 'Zat's it?'! I vos threatened!" Mr. Dahl's eyes popped wide as he tried to convince Tommy and I of his fears. I folded the notepad and put it back in my pocket, this was proving to be a dead-end. No offense at all to Mr. Dahl, his mind was as sharp as one of his rigs drills, but the Carson family is not oil and gas company police.

"Look, Mr. Dahl…" Tommy tried to put things as diplomatically as possible. "I don't think this is really anything to worry about. It was probably one of your competitors, or a plant from Greenpeace or one of those groups. What you and the rest of the drillers are doing isn't exactly popular with some people; y'all have a lot of enemies."

"Perhaps…" Mr. Dahl agreed after some thought. "But I do not like zee feeling off zat man. He had ah, evil cloud around him, he hass a bad soul."

"Uh-huh…well, let us know if he comes back or something does happen. We're short-staffed as is already, but will do what we can." Tommy said.

"It's not that we don't believe you…" I added as Mr. Dahl looked a tad let-down. "But until something actually happens or we have something physical to work with…"

"Ah, Herr Carson…your carbiner." Mr. Dahl interrupted and pointed at the carabiner on my belt above my left hip. _Click! Click-clack!_ It pulled against the bracket, straining to move backwards towards the door. _Ching! Cling-a-ling!_ The links on Tommy's wallet chain rang softly against each other in their own warning.

"Oh no." I turned to Tommy. "You don't think…"

"I sure's hell hope not."

. . .

Putting away the spreader cables and nylon straps had been easy, but securing the crane's boom was a little out of Naota's realm. Tommy had shown him the controls back at Scomi, but that was then and far between. He had been staring at the control panel and its many levers, afraid to pull the wrong one and break something.

"Need some help?" One of the passing workers offered his assistance. "I used to run one of these, once upon a time."

"Uhhhh…sure?" He said, unsure if it was okay for someone else to be at the controls. Then again, he didn't know the first thing about running the boom truck's crane, so he decided to trust the stranger's claim of experience. He tossed the spreader cables onto the truck's deck, then climbed up to pick them up and hang them on the rack bolted to the back of the truck's cab. As he stooped to pick up the cables, he violated Rig's Number Three Rule: Always staying aware of his surroundings. The man at the controls mixed up his levers and swung the boom hard to the side.

"Hey kid, look out!" He yelled but too late for Naota to even get out a 'Huh?' before the headache ball swung around and smashed him full in the face. The impact knocked him off the deck, sending him flying head-first through the air and onto the pad of stones for another jarring blow to his head. As his consciousness faded and he struggled to stay awake, he felt a pressure build from inside the cavern of his empty skull, a dull broad force that sharpened to a piercing needle point before bursting free from him; all horrifyingly familiar. With his vision going dark, the last thing he saw was a massive, red hand of wires, gears and metal working its way free from his head.

. . .

 _BANG!_ Something very expensive sounding smashed into some else expensive sounding as Tommy and I bounded back down the hill, Mr. Dahl in tow.

"Gott im Himmel! Vat vos zat?!" He yelled as the sound of the crash reached us.

"Something that can be replaced, probably!" Tommy answered and brought us to a temporary halt. "Mr Dahl, go back to your office and stay there. Get your workers out of this area and somewhere safe now!"

"But vat shall I tell zem?!"

"Training exercise, or a drill, that's the usual B.S. right?" I suggested.

"That'll work, do that." Tommy said.

"But, but I…"

"Dahl, we don't know what's down there…" Tommy said as there was another crash and a grating, screeching howl followed. "But whatever it is, Rig and I will deal with it. Best you can do to help is assure the safety of your workers."

"Very vell, I understand. But vat iff…?"

"And no, you didn't see or hear shit, and we were never here!" Tommy added as we started down again and Mr. Dahl returned to his office.

"So what's the plan Tom?" I asked as we sprinted back to the trucks and alarms started blaring.

"I thought you'd have one, since you're a full agent now and everything…" He managed to work in a joke. "We'll burn that bridge when we figure out what it is…ohhhhhh…fuck."

It, was, for starters, ten damn feet tall. A Medical Mechanica robot, no doubt, especially with 'M-M' painted in white, block letters across its chest. The rest of it was painted a glaring fire hydrant red. It was humanoid in form, if that human went on regular trips to the mountains to wrestle bears. It seemed to be built for hard, industrial labor with massive reinforcements at its joints, heavy hydraulic supports and added on plates around its head to protect the back of its neck from blows. It lacked the stereotypical TV-monitor head, either it never had one or it had been replaced with a small head with independently moving eyes for this mission. Luckily for us, it hadn't seen Tommy or me yet and was too busy lifting up tractor trailers to bother, probably looking for Naota.

Speaking of him, we found Naota passed out with a huge lump already beginning to form on his forehead, his cracked hard hat next to him on the stones. Tommy and I stopped to pull him under the boom truck's relative shelter. While I checked to see if Naota was still breathing, Tommy disappeared to the truck's cab. I looked up to the sound of thudding, stone-crushing footsteps to see the bot had spotted us and was on its way to say hi. I stood, lifted the back of my shirt and reached for the back of my belt…

"Don't you dare Rig!" Tommy came back, tossing me a tie-down rod; four feet of solid steel. He carried his personalized three-foot long crowbar, the letters "Attitude Adjuster" etched into it. "That's only for an absolute last resort!"

"Sorry Tom, but don't you think _that!_ " I pointed at the robot, now fifty yards away and closing. "Warrant it?"

"Nah, we can take this thing man to man…er, man to bot." I didn't like the idea of having to fight hand to hand, but Tommy was the adult and senior agent, he knew, I hoped, what he was doing. We also had a standing policy from Command. If a Medical Mechanica bot is encountered in the field, our orders were to kill on sight. No bot is to walk freely or uncontested and we were to reduce every single one we found to a pile of scrap. "C'mon Rig, let's put this sick puppy down."

"Ooookay then. How about I go high and right, and you go low and left?" I steadied my grip on the tie-down bar as the bot took another step, shaking the ground with the force of its weight.

"Sounds kosher to me!" Tommy agreed. "Let's go!"

As we charged forward, the bot actually _roared_ at us, something I'd never heard of them doing. The sound shivered my spine and physically shook me with its power, that deep screeching of metal on metal. It must have been a tactic to scare the hell outta its targets, and boy did it almost work! Seeing we weren't scared off, it seized a spare loader tire from the truck next to it, and tossed the five hundred pound tire at us with a flick of its wrist. Tommy and I split as the tire whipped by and began our first run.

"Go for its hydraulic lines!" Tommy ordered as he attacked the back of its right knee. He hooked into an exposed line, the sharpened teeth of the crowbars hook bit into the line and sliced it open. A high-pressure stream of green fluid began to spray from the gash, spattering in palm sized splotches across the stones. The bot turned and took a swing at Tommy, but its design and extra armor rendered it ponderous and slow. Tommy sprang backwards and narrowly avoided a coffee table sized fist that smashed a two foot deep hole in the stone pad.

As it lunged at Tommy, the bot's torso rotated and opened up its left armpit; a gaping hole of loose cables, wires and tubes. I plunged the bar's bent tip in a good foot or so a got a rewarding shower of sparks as its arm convulsed. Now the bot decided to take an interest in _me_ , and as it turned left, the bar went with it. I clung onto the bar, hoping the bot wouldn't pull it free itself and use it to split my skull open…and that would be if I was so lucky. But my weight was enough for the bar to pull free and I scrambled to get out of its range again. It reached out an open hand, instead of splitting me open, it was going to squish my head like a grape between its fingers…no thanks! I took a swing at its fingers, knocking its hand off course and a few more swings bent its thumb backwards. With the bot distracted, Tommy had his new opening.

He waded into the fight again, ripping the first hose from its attachment points and cut another line. Now the rocks in our little arena were drenched in green fluid as the bot hobbled in a circle on its crippled leg. It focused on Tommy again, only to have its right leg buckle and its knee bend to thud into the rocks. I took some swings at its left shoulder, aiming for a gap between its neck and upper arm plates. I felt a tube, similar to your car's tie-rods, bend under the first few blows and finally break; the impacts sending tremors up my arms and stinging my hands. But now it couldn't raise its left arm, and hey, that's something.

With the bot fending me off and two of its limbs damaged, Tommy took a running leap onto its back. He began stabbing with the long end of his crowbar between armor plates, searching for the main hydraulic reservoir. He clipped a main line and started a geyser of fluid from the wound. The bot shook itself like a dog fresh out of water, throwing Tommy off. As it did, I got as close as I dared; right under the glare of its black-hole eyes. It's head was a mere bulky block, no mouth except for a mesh grille and two fist-sized eyes that whirred as they refocused on me. I picked the left one and stabbed the tie-down bar right into its eye. Its outer protective shell shattered and the whole eye component dropped out of socket, allowing the bar to slip further into its head. Grating howls blasted our ears, deafening us as it struggled to stay upright and online. As its fluid bled and bubbled out, it lost the pressure to hold position and collapsed forward; still trying to push with its good leg and arm. The bar pulled from my hands and hit the ground first, then the weight of the bot drove it through the rest of its head and out the back in a shower of mutilated parts. With a final burst of fluid and garble of fizzling static, then bot was finally Scrap.

"Holy shit Tom…" I gasped as I wrenched the bar free. My heart was crashing against my sternum, blood singing in my ears; my hands shook as adrenaline started to slowly ebb away. "Let's just shoot the damn thing next time eh?"

"We can't do that, you know the rules." He was taking a closer look at the bot, using his crowbars hook to move its limbs around. "This just turned out to be a bigger fight than I thought."

"It looks like an Industrial Model, but they gussied it up some and gave it some mods to press it into frontline service." I checked its head, giving it another series of good hits to make sure it was down. "Huff…huff…So, it looks like M-M's getting' really desperate if they're sending their mothballs out to fight."

"Mmmm…" Tommy shook his head and headed for the boom truck.

"Mmm? What?"

"They are desperate, but not too much yet. They're using their resources of good units sparingly and carefully."

"I…don't follow?"

"This was just a test Rig." He said, tossing his crowbar into the truck and started the crane. "They were checking Naota's portal and what might be on this side of it. That's why we couldn't shoot the bot…"

"Because that could give us away as Overwatch, or something right?" I asked and Tommy nodded. "Their bots have live-feed cameras, I forgot about that."

"It's that thinking a little farther ahead Rig." He said. Then I knew why George had sent Tommy along. I would've just opened fire, probably getting myself killed or at least given myself away as an agent of some sort. "You have to consider more than just the immediate situation."

"Easy for you to say, with fifteen years of experience…" I grumbled, annoyed how I was getting a lecture after just having helped take down an M-M bot. Give a guy a break huh?

"Don't you get fuckin' lippy with me. I'm not patronizing you." He said as we hoisted out newest hunk of killer metal onto the boom truck's deck. "I'm trying to help you think ahead and not just react to things as they happen. That pride and gung-ho of yours is great right up until it gets your skull smashed in."

"Alright, alright." I agreed, just stung that I hadn't thought of the live feeds; I should have been on top of that! "But hey, at least we killed it right?"

"Yes, and without gun or guitar, so be proud of that." He allowed as we covered the bot with tarps and strapped them and it down.

"Do you think we passed or failed M-M's test of Naota's portal?" I asked while we carried him, still alive by the grace of all things holy, and strapped him into the Kennworth.

"I'm not sure." Tommy admitted. "If they just wanted to test the connection, they've done that. If they're trying to kill him, well…then this ain't over. They'll send A LOT more, and they'll be dedicated, purpose built for the job."

"Are…you sure?" I asked, a small prickle of fear in my spine. This bot had nearly killed me, and it was just a sacrificial lamb to test the damn connection?! What were they going to send next, if they really were trying to kill him? I needed a plug to calm down and hurriedly packed my lip full.

"Welcome to Overwatch Rig, welcome to my life, George's and your Dad's. Scary as fuck, ain't it?"

"Uh-huh." I barely got out, having used too much tobacco in one plug. Nervous habits yah know.

"Hey, don't get an ulcer worrying over it. We've dealt with M-M before by just taking things one thing at a time; it's the only way we can. For now, let's just get Naota somewhere to get checked out."

"Right, right. Let's…yeah…" I started for the truck, feeling suddenly whoozy.

"Rig, hey bud. Are you okay? You seem a little more shaken up than I'd thought you'd be."

"Sorry, it's just…I mean, I almost got crushed Tom. That's a lot to take in, I mean, it's never exactly happened to me before. In the moment, I didn't think of it, but now…whoooo…"

"Breathe…breathe…" He put his arm across my shoulders and walked me the rest of the way to the truck, helping me to calm down as my heart rate normalized. "I know it's real scary, I know it's terrifying, I know some of the best agents would have shit themselves today seeing what you did. But you didn't, and did just fine, so just breathe and concentrate on the task at hand. One thing at a time man."

"Right. Naota, hospital, hasta pronto." I breathed, the shaking in my hands finally subsiding.

"That's it. Now let's get going. I'll call Mr. Dahl on our way and explain what he has to do to cover…this…" He waved his arm across the pad, encompassing over turned trucks and the kicked up stones from our fight. "Up. Your job until we get to the hospital, is to figure out what to say to Naota when he wakes up."

"Ohhhh…crap. Debriefing. That's gonna be real fun huh?"

"We'll have plenty of time on the road for you to think of something witty." With a mission in mind, we put pedals to the floor and left before anyone could stumble along and start asking questions. That may make things confusing for the site workers, but that fell on Mr. Dahl to explain away. He was a clever man though, I wasn't worried about him. My worries consisted instead of getting the bot home so we could start having all kinds of fun with it, but most importantly, checking out the head it had crawled out of. I felt all kinds of bad about how the day had gone, even though I couldn't control when M-M sent something through Naota's head. My job was ensuring his well-being at all times, and it felt like I had failed a little in that, since I had to strap him into his seat with bungee cords to keep him upright and his head from lolling off. Man, I really hoped he was okay.

* * *

. . .

Songs:

*Rock and Roll (Hootchie-Koo) - Rick Derringer

So what did you think? If you read the first iteration of this story, you'll notice I added a scene or two. Hopefully they added to the tale and made things both a little clearer and more interesting. If you think so, or don't, either way, let me know with your reviews. Thanks again for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

Hey hey! What's new, what's goin' on, how y'all doin'? It's been a while Fanfiction, life has been getting in the way. 40-50 hour work weeks, finally being able to afford flight lessons, and deciding whether to get Star Wars Battlefront, Fallout 4, The Tomb Raider or Black Ops III...decisions, decisions. But while I try to make up my mind on how to best waste my free time, here's the newest chapter of Pennsylvania themed, Fooly-Cooly styled adventure! It took a while to get this written up, so I really hope you enjoy it!

* * *

. . .

"That's enough, pause it please." The Head of The Board ordered. The Aide tapped his touchscreen, stopping the video with half the screen filled with static, the other obscured by stones and a steel-toed motocross boot. "What do we make of this gentlemen? Let me hear your thoughts, you are the experts."

"First…and foremost, we have confirmed that Nandaba's portal is definitely active; in fact, it seems to have improved its connection over the years." The Director of The Security Council said, reviewing his notes. "Second, and troubling, is that he has talented friends."

"Do we have any information on any of them?" A Security Councilman pointed with his handheld laser at the corner of the video screen. "Actually, back it up to the…yes, hold it! Our unit had a much better shot here." The camera feed, now static free and upright, showed two men. One was armed with a crowbar, the other with a long metal rod. "Anything at all?"

"Facial recognition of known enemy agents has come back inconclusive." Another Councilman answered. "As far as our database can tell, this pair were merely lucky bystanders."

"I don't like it though." The Head grumbled, running his hand over his polished scalp in a nervous tic. "Two, what do they call them, Regular Joe? Humans, taking down an Industrial Heavy Class…with blunt tools? No, something's off here."

"I agree sir, it was too much of a coincidence." A Board member piped up, nervously twiddling his thumbs. "Perhaps, if I may be so bold, I could recommend construction of an Assassin Class?" He proposed and was received with a flutter of murmurs across the table, little cliques discussing the idea. All attention swiveled towards The Head, awaiting his words.

"I would say…yes. And immediately. Also, Aide. Add to my list contacting the team we have stationed on Earth. I want to know their take on this, any information they might have about enemy agents, and…why not? Their plans should they encounter resistance."

"Right away sir." The Aide said, already typing orders and adjusting The Head's schedule.

"Good, now what's next?"

"The…" The Aide paused to scroll through the joint Security Council and Board's itinerary. "Locally based allies that our team has recruited and their progress."

"And? Is this new strategy bearing fruit?" The Head inquired as the bullet points shunted the Industrial Class's camera feed off the projection screen and took the forefront; seven pictures each with their own biography. Councilmen and Board members readied their own touchscreens, or the more old-school their pencils, to take notes.

"This is their progress thus far. They are in the process of shutting down a coal and natural gas company, named Roman's Mining. Once acquired, it will provide us with a base of operations, plentiful resources and energy, and enough territory to keep the site secure from prying eyes. Once that site is secured, there are seven others in the immediate vicinity they have chosen as targets."

"It sounds promising, what's our timetable?" _Pa-Ping._ The Head was interrupted by a chime from his Aide's touchscreen. "What is it?"

"A message from our team on Earth." The Aide reported. "They send good news! Roman's Mining has capitulated, the owner has elected to sign over the company and property; we have our toehold!" He read with relish and the Councilmen and Board members broke into gloating grins.

"Begin dispatching the construction crews as soon as their equipment is loaded. Have them begin work immediately upon their arrival." The Head, although immensely pleased, was still focused on the task at hand. "Time is our most precious commodity, let's not allow ourselves to waste it in self-congratulation. That facility needs to be operational, yesterday! Now, gentlemen…" He addressed the room as a whole. "You know the risk we are taking. What was that number again, General?"

"Seventy-five percent Sir." The Commander of Medical Mechanica's Marine Expeditionary Force answered.

"A seventy-five percent chance of push-back, if detected." The Head repeated for emphasis to a hushed chamber. "This. Must. Work."

"Merely name what needs to be done and it shall be."

"Send along a battalion with the crews. I want them to have _the best_ security we can offer." The Head ordered, receiving an exasperated gasp in response. "Is there a problem?"

"A…a battalion sir?" The Logistics Officer's eyes grew wide at the figure. "Sir, we currently do not, nor never had, have a battalion sized unit!"

"Then make one." The Head commanded. He turned his gaze to the faces of the seven Earthlings that Medical Mechanica had turned traitor. "It may seem outlandish, and overkill, but we cannot lean our full weight on these humans. They are after all, flawed, weak and fragile by nature. An insurance policy is a safe bet, should they fail."

"I agree completely." The Chairman of the Security Council said, closing any discussion on the matter before it could even begin. "All that remains now is to monitor our progress and trust our team on the ground to, well, do what they do best. And if I may speak freely, unless any _real_ resistance emerges, Earth is already as good as ours."

"Careful Councilman." The Head cautioned. "Pride, and the Hubris that comes with it, is more dangerous than one of our Irons…and that's saying something indeed."

. . .

"'Kay…seems like nothin's broken…if I'm readin' these right." I looked at the X-rays Canti was projecting at the office wall. The doctor at Williamsport's ER had given Naota a clean bill of health, except for a brutal concussion. We had managed to leave before he could ask too many questions about the hollowness of Naota's skull. Now it was up to me to figure out how to debrief him. Even though I'd had the entire drive back, I still hadn't thought of anything witty.

"Nothing feels broken, just sore." He clarified from the office couch. He now sported a turban made of two icepacks and a wrapped towel to hold them in place. "Now I know why you guys call it a Headache Ball."

"Uh-huh, the name really doesn't leave much to imagination." We had made it back home by five and without any more incidents. It was nearing seven, George had gone to the house and Tommy had roared away in his truck, also homeward bound. "Speaking of imagination, I'm trying to use mine to explain why your head is hollow." This was a test boys and girls. I had to gauge how open Naota was willing to be. That would shape how the rest of his training would go. The more he was willing to tell me, the easier my job was going to be.

"Oh, that? Funny story…" He sighed, perhaps wondering how to begin, how to explain things in a way that wouldn't scare me off. "About four years ago, a pink-haired alien named Haruko Haruhara, ran me over with her Vespa scooter, whacked me over the head with a bass guitar that opened a wormhole-ish channel in my head, that occasionally killer robots pop out of while under orders from an organization that tries to take over planets by turning the inhabitants into brain-dead slaves…and I really have no means of controlling it."

"Oh." I said, both in a little of pretend and mostly genuine surprise. We, Overwatch, try to avoid those under our responsibility knowing who and what we are. The more normal their life, the better; especially since their lives are hectic enough already. No one is ever placed into Overwatch custody because they just needed a weekend vacation. We want to be concerned and helpful comrades, not suffocating bodyguards, or worse, as some have described the feeling, jailers. Protective custody can feel like being trapped in a prison after all. But I was quite surprised Naota would be so upfront about himself, maybe he felt he didn't have anything to hide? I mean, he did have a seven foot tall robot companion in the room. In my opinion, it wasn't a matter of not having anything to hide, his N.O. channel was just something he had accepted about himself; relegating his portal's significance to something as ordinary as a birthmark or Hitchhiker's Thumb. In other news, his attitude about it was going to make my life immensely easier! So…yay! "That's, well, that's quite the story man. So…what sets it off?"

"I've given it some thought, and it seems to be either when I'm under extreme emotional stress, or getting hit really, _really_ hard, or a combo of both." He explained in a practiced tone, he really did understand his own noggin'. To me, this was brand-new info. For even everyone in the loop, N.O. is seen as some sort of black magic or voodoo. The only exceptions seemed to be Medical Mechanica or those with a personal portal of their own. Some people, like Haruko from what I'd heard, could manipulate N.O. a little for their purposes, but didn't come remotely close to grasping its properties. Think of someone who can drive a car incredibly well, but has no idea how anything under the hood works. To them, it could be an engine in there powering everything, or a bunch of hamsters on those little wheels making it go. Same concept, but with N.O.

"It's no big deal though, it doesn't really bother me all that much." There's that aloof indifference his file mentioned. "I mean, it seems like this one was a dud. The bot they sent didn't even try anything on me."

"Who sent what, to do what?"

"Oh, the Medical Mechanica organization. They're the ones who built Canti here; he was the first one that came out of my head." Canti turned his monitor towards me and waved. I still wasn't one-hundred percent about that green-blue robot, but Naota seemed to have some sort of hold over it, so we were ignoring our standing order regarding bots…his behavior pending. "But they sent a few more like, assassin-type, robots to shut me down. They didn't last long against Haruko, Canti and I. Then they finally sent this huge one to try and activate one of their factories."

"Hold up, factory? What do they do?"

"Flattens planets. Okay, not literally!" He laughed, seeing the look of 'What the effin' hell man?!' on my face. "It messes with people's brains, turns them into zombies or something like that."

"Oh, well, if that's all, not so bad, right, totally not a huge deal, right?"

"Not really no. The last time M-M tried anything on Earth they got their asses kicked." He bragged, making it sound like it was all his doing. I knew there was a little more to the story than that, but I'd let him have his moment.

"Uh-huh…okay, well you must've missed a spot. They did send a bot, and it was _pissed._ "

"How do you know? Did one actually make it through?"

"We have it in the shop in you wanna take a gander." I got up and headed for the office door. "And don't worry, it's dead. Tommy and I gave it a 'Welcome to Earth' party."

"How'd you go about that?" He asked, getting up to follow me and his curiosity. "The last ones were pretty tough, the biggest was the size of a skyscraper."

"And it came out of your head? How in bumblefuck does that work?" I was actually asking, I'd never seen myself an N.O. portal in action. This was really good stuff, certainly notebook worthy!

"They start off kinda at a pinpoint, like an inverse funnel." He put his hands on top of his head, then raised them up and out. "And grow up and out from there."

"I almost wanna see that…lemme get a sledgehammer…"

"Don't you dare! Once in four years is one too many!" He warned, but not too seriously, laughing it off. "So are you going to show me this bot or not?" He asked as we stood outside the shop's regular door. We had closed and shuttered the main doors, no peeping eyes allowed!

"On one condition. Don't tell anyone about it, or we have it, how we got it, or…"

"Yeah, yeah, Area 51 level security, got it!" He saluted, then tried to work his way between me and the door. "Just don't go shouting around about my head and we've got a deal."

"Done." I agreed in the easiest bargain ever made. I opened the door and ushered Naota in to behold the creation his head had wrought; and G&R's newest mad scientist project.

. . .

There it was, right before his eyes. Hanging from a steel crossbeam by a set of hefty chains was a ten-foot tall and bright red Medical Mechanica robot. Its left eye was a gaping socket, the actual eyeball had been removed and was laying on a workbench on a nest of its own frayed wires. Underneath the robot, a kiddie pool collected the green hydraulic fluid it was leaking from several torn lines. The rest of the shop was shrouded in darkness, the area around the bot illuminated by a solitary fluorescent panel above the robot, the glow of two computer screens and three cigarette pinpoints; the smoke wafting into the blackness of the ceiling.

"Whatcha got Josh?" Rig put his hands on the back of the computer chair and leaned over the operator's shoulders to look at the screens. "Anything good? C'mon talk to me, I don't know what any of these words mean."

"They mean, that I would have a lot more…" Josh explained as he tapped away on the keyboard. Josh was in his late 20's, lanky and thin with a light brown goatee, tired brown eyes and a spare cigarette tucked behind his ear; in addition to the glowing one in his mouth and the three crushed in his ashtray. "If you hadn't stabbed it in the head. Your tie-down bar went straight through its core processor."

"But that's always been the most effective way to kill…" Another G&R member began, then abruptly stopped upon seeing Naota. "You can still make it run, right?"

"Ohhh…Johnny-boy, I'll bet a carton of Camels I can make it do more than that." Josh hit a solitary key and leaned back as something loaded on the screen. "By the time I'm done with it, I'll have it tap dancing, spilling its darkest secrets and fetching our slippers."

"I think a carton of cigs would be worth it, to see all that!" Johnny chuckled. He was a middle-aged man of medium height and portly, graced with a heavy, well-groomed mustache, and a set of constantly narrowed eyes; like someone had just told him a brain-teasing riddle.

"Hey Mike, can you double check our connections? I don't want to overload anything." Josh rotated in his chair and pointed with his cigarette at the arm thick bundle running from the computers and other dark corners of the shop. They all converged into an open panel on the robot's back. "Check both ends of the cables, then stand-by to give it power…annnnd…Rig. Who's this?"

"This's Naota, our new apprentice and the head that robot crawled out of. The silent one behind him is Canti." Rig introduced them as Josh finally saw the two extra bodies.

"Rrrrrealllly? Well, that's all kinds of interesting." Josh and Johnny both introduced themselves. "Mike! You gotta meet this dude! So, how does it work, the robot coming out of your head?"

"Well…it's a long story…" Naota began then was greeted by a third G&R employee.

"Hi, name's Mike. Yours is Naota, right? So awesome to meet you, did that robot really come out of your head? How does that work? Could you describe it again, in detail? Am I asking too many questions?" Mike appeared like he would be at home on a rumbling Harley motorcycle, perhaps as a member of a biker gang. He was a great bear of a man in his early twenties, intricate tattoos swirled his arms from his wrists to disappearing into his shirt sleeves. Fiery red head hair and a long, full, lumberjack style beard completed the look. However, the intimidating effect was marred by his cheery disposition and a pair of small, rounded frame glasses.

"No, no, it's fine." Naota shook Mike's hand as well and explained to them what little he understood about N.O., retelling the events that happened in Mabase four years ago. "Hey, are you…?"

"Taking notes? Of course." Josh said, looking up from his notepad. He, Johnny and Mike all had little notebooks they were furiously scribbling on as he talked.

"This's really cool stuff man, aliens, giant robots, evil corporations, hot babes, and all that." Mike added as Johnny looked at his notes to compare.

"I forgot to warn you Naota. We may be fabricators…" Rig explained, not looking up while he jotted something down on a pocket sized notebook of his own. "But we're also a bunch of nerds."

"We prefer technological visionaries." Johnny clarified as he updated his notes from Mikes.

"And! My fellow visionaries, or whatever…" Josh said as his computer pinged. "We are ready! Mike, Johnny, man your posts!"

"What exactly are we ready for?" Naota asked as Josh, Johnny and Mike moved into position. "What's the computer doing?"

"Right now we have it, oh just pull up a chair." Josh waved him over. Rig handed him a stool and he sat down next to Josh. "See this display? Right now we have it hooked up to a series of diagnostic tools." He explained, pointing out different displays on the monitors. "The one that just finished is very similar to the one you hook cars up to when you wanna see what's wrong with them. We had to make some mods to it of course…"

"Like what?" Naota asked, amazed how the members of G&R weren't scared off by his story, but seemed genuinely intrigued. It was not the reaction he had expected, quite the opposite. The attention lauded on him and Canti in the form of ceaseless questions wasn't bad either.

"Well, where to begin? Uh, the plug-in interface for one. This bot doesn't use the same plug as us. Ours is a multi-pronged do-dad, and theirs is similar to an auxiliary port…kinda-ish. Looks a lot like the headphone plug on an ipod. Figures aliens would be using Mac hardware, and that's why I'm gonna run some Linux on this bitch, spin in your grave Jobs. Yo Mike!" He paused to call for an update from Mike.

"We are ready to divert power, all cables and connections accounted for!" Mike confirmed from the shop's vast bank of circuit breakers.

"Johnny, ready on your end?"

"Born ready." Johnny picked up a long metal spar with a fork at the end, and held it on the crook of his elbows while pulling on thick rubber gloves. He stepped over a cable attached to the back of the spar, its source also somewhere in the dark.

"Now what's that for?" Naota asked as Johnny adjusted a knob on the small unit at the spar's connection point to its cable.

"Well, we only built it just today, so we don't have a real cool name for it yet."

"The Zappinator-Two-Thousand." Josh said without looking away from his computers. "That's what we voted on. Two-to-one, you lost Johnny."

"Anyway…" Johnny ignored Josh and continued. "Think of it as a robot Tazer." He explained, showing Naota the controls. "If it gets too persnickety, I poke it with the lead ends and ZAP! It'll make the bot sit right down."

"Do you think it would be possible to make another, portable one?" Naota asked, yearning for one of his own in case more robots came out of his head to try their luck.

"No promises, but we'll see."

"Alright, quiet on the set!" Josh ordered and everyone hushed. "Get ready for the awesome. Lights, camera, action!" Mike flipped a breaker with a massive clunk, causing the only light and the computer screens to flicker. The robot shuddered at the sudden influx of power but still hung as lifeless as ever. Then it shuddered once more, swinging on its chains and shaking dust from the rafters. It moved its right arm slowly, then tried out its left arm and legs. Naota could only guess it was testing its limbs.

"How we doin' Josh?" Rig asked, not taking his eyes off the bot.

"It's awake, that's for sure." Josh answered. "I'm going to start taking the restrictions off. Mike, be ready to kill its power and Johnny, have that thing set to full." Naota felt like he was in the company of mad scientists, trying to resurrect a corpse. Only this subject was made of metal and circuits instead of flesh and bone. As the robot stretched its limbs, he felt a growing excitement despite his misgivings. Perhaps this was the first step? By learning how the robot worked, it could lead to an understanding of N.O., the portal in his head; the possibilities were endless really. Working for G&R was turning into a real trip, with experiments on a robot from another planet, galaxy…dimension? How cool was that?!

"Hey Josh, it 'sposed to do that?" Rig asked as the bot began to work itself free of the chains holding it up.

"Uhmmm…I don't _think_ so…" Josh scanned his screens.

"You don't _think_ , or you don't _know_?" Rig asked, glancing from the robot to Naota, then positioning himself between the two of them.

"Okay, I don't know!" Josh admitted. "This's the first, whatever this is, robot, I've actually gotten to work on! It's a little more complex than a damn Prius! Mike, kill its power." He ordered with a slashing movement across his neck. Mike pulled the breaker lever up, denying the robot external power. It continued to struggle.

"It recharged a helluva lot faster than I had calculated." Mike observed as it unhooked the first chain. "Such amazing resilience! So hard to completely kill!"

"Yeah, miracle of engineering." Josh remarked dryly, lighting his spare cigarette and burning up half of it in one hard pull; all while furiously battling the robot's own computer. "It's getting away from me!"

"Yer gonna wanna back up some." Rig advised. "It's in a real pissy mood. Okay Josh, what do you want me to do?"

"You, Naota and Canti to stay out of the way." The robot was now free and lowered itself to the floor. It swiveled its half-blinded head, the wires trailing from its left eye socket clacked against its face. It took a wobbly step forward, arms wide for balance, and favoring its right leg.

"It can't see us, right?" Naota asked a split second before realizing the robot could still probably _hear_ him. It turned towards his voice, shaking the floor as it shuffled across the shop. A hand reached out, powerful and large enough to crush his entire body like an egg. He backed up further and felt something solid at his back; he was pinned.

"Today Johnny!" Josh ordered. There was a buzzing, crackling sound, then a sizzling and the smell of ozone, followed by a loud _BZZZRRRTTT!_ The robot lost all power and collapsed in a heap with a thud that rattled the entire building.

"Way to be Johnny-on-the-spot!" Rig laughed and Johnny reminded them all how much he hated that joke.

"Well that went tits up, didn't it?" Josh said as they gathered around the crumpled pile of robot that reeked of burnt plastic. "Let's give it another go, wanna lend a hand Rig?"

"Sure, I got nothin' else. Wanna jump in on this Naota?" Rig offered as everyone began setting up for another attempt.

"Try and convince me to say no, I dare you!" Naota challenged. "What can I do, how can I help? This's just so damn cool!"

"That's the exact words, and attitude, I want to hear." Rig smiled. "Okay, here's what you're gonna do…"

. . .

"What?! He did what?!" I asked George, he was just audible over the Ought-Too's idle. At least I was getting better at answering my phone. "They called a meetin'? Did they say why?" It had been only a week since Tommy and I fought M-M's bot at Dahl's, what could have gone wrong in that short of time?

"No, they didn't." George sighed. "But Mr. Voyze's the oldest name in the business, so his opinion carries some serious weight. If he's concerned, the rest of them are, and that means we are too."

"That and he's a grumpy old bastard that'd make the Devil flinch." I added, my hyperbole not far off from the truth.

"Yes, that too. So drop your patrol route and head for Midstate right now. Tommy's already there and I'm on my way."

"Roger that, be there ASAP, see you soon." I hung up and tapped the gear lever down to first. A conference of the oil and gas drillers and coal miners in the area had been called by the senior member; and G&R was expected to attend. Overwatch strives to make connections with local businesses and industries, and our station is no exception. The reason was because they employ a wide variety of people from all across the area, can come and go without suspicion and also interact with parties like trucking companies, fuel depots, part suppliers, restaurants, hotels, that whole chestnut. This's really important because people who work in places like these all know each other, they all see things, they talk to each other about things of great interest to us in Overwatch. But since we can't be everywhere to chase down every little lead or story, having a network of truckers, welders, waiters and waitresses, station clerks, delivery drivers, miners, surveyors, roughnecks, firefighters and police not on M-M's payroll, makes life a little more manageable. And if the bosses were calling us, then there was a serious problem.

I made it to our rendezvous without incident; the end of the Midstate Airport's runway. Midstate's smack in the middle of Black Moshannon State Forest and used to be the airstrip for Central Pennsylvania, until Penn State went and built their own. That actually worked in our favor because now that flights were few and far between, the only people that might be found at the runway's end were kids smoking dope, and us. So the chances of being eavesdropped or spied on were practically nil. Already a cluster of trucks had gathered by the fence.

"Evenin', Misters King, Welshman, Voyze and Solomon." I greeted the four miners from our area. "And of course, Mister Pike, Monsieur Chartier and Herr Dahl as well. What's the occasion?"

"A nightmare Rig, that's what." Tommy said, spitting a mouthful of tobacco juice. "Tell Rig what y'all just told us."

"Jeff, you recall zee conversation vee had zee other day, ja?" Mr. Dahl asked and I nodded. "Vell, zee man hast shown himself again, at all off our sites."

"Everyone's?" I asked and they all nodded.

"He's been making the rounds on all of us. We just finally connected the dots and realized we were talking about the same guy." Mr. King said. He was in his mid-40's, average height and build, with stubborn coal dust under his fingernails. He was never comfortable sitting in his office, always found deep in one of his mines at the face; a really chill, average Joe kind of guy. "Threatened me just this morning."

"All of us have been visited by this man, his style reminds me of the nineteen fifties." Mr. Solomon added. A teetotaler and non-smoker, his swarthy complexion, pointed goatee and shining dark eyes were unusual to the area. But his reserve and wisdom was not to be ignored. "And on the heels of Roman's collapse."

"I read about it in the paper, it was rather short in length, and substance. What I've heard from our sources isn't much better, what happened?" The article, a footnote buried on page three, was skimpy on the details and the only thing everyone I talked to knew was that they knew nothing.

"More like what didn't happen?" Mr. Welshman growled as he lit his pipe. A first-generation American, this miner was shorty, stocky and had a tendency to say exactly what was on his mind, damn the consequences. "Sand and ground glass in fuel and oil, food and water stocks poisoned, relief valves welded shut, tires slashed, workers intimidated and roughed up, emery dust on circuits, bolts loosened so machines rattle themselves apart, a nightmare indeed!"

"Does anyone know who the buyer was? Maybe they did all the sabotage to pick up Roman's on the cheap?"

"The only person that could tell us would be Roman." Mr. Voyze chimed in. He was the oldest member of the group, a fourth generation miner with coal dust in his veins, white hair on his head and a permanent half scowl on his face. "But he can't exactly do that now."

"Why's that?" I asked, a million possibilities all conjuring in my head, each worse than the last.

"He's dead Rig." Mr. Pike said simply, as if the former Marine was saying he expected it to rain. Two tours in Afghanistan and another in Iraq had hardened him into a serious, quiet man. He'd taken over the business when his dad retired. "The police found him in his house, brain all over the wall and his gun in his mouth."

"Holy shit! He shot himself?!" Of all the ideas I'd thought of; that was not one of them, or at least it was near the bottom of the list. At worst, I'd have thought he'd leave the state in disgrace.

"Well…he was shot, and with his own gun…" Mr. Pike went on slowly. "But…"

"But y'all ain't buyin' that, are yah?" They all shook their heads no. The lot of us trusted the police, especially state troopers (who had a history of lying about their business whenever they felt it convenient) about as far as we could throw 'em. Routinely bribing officers to keep them off your back was the most common, but trivial, of offences we in the area had to put up with.

"The police never mentioned it, but we talked to the neighbors." Mr. Chartier said. A Frenchman by ancestry, he was youngest and newest to the game. But this natural gas hunter, always impeccably dressed, was showing signs of great promise. "All of them swear they saw a man enter and leave the house, one that looks like…this." He took a photograph from his jacket and unfolded it, holding it out for George, Tommy and I to review.

"Oh no." George said, summing up and underscoring our feelings. The man had been captured on Mr. Chartier's office door camera. He stood at about six foot and one-ish inch tall, clocked in around two hundred pounds. He looked _exactly_ like an FBI G-man with black slacks, polished black shoes, a trim four-piece suit, black leather gloves, smoked black sunglasses and a wide-brim fedora that hid his face from the camera's lens. In his right hand he grasped the handle of his briefcase, his left forearm had his coat folded over it.

"This's…this's incredible!" Tommy gasped, taking the picture to look more closely. "I've been at this twelve years gentlemen, and I have never even _heard_ of a Man in Black being caught on camera!"

"Hold up. Man in Black?" Mr. Pike wasn't pleased with Tommy's reaction. "I don't like the sound of that."

"You shouldn't." George said, taking the photo from Tommy. "You all remember when I sat you down and told you about Medical Mechanica? Well, Men in Black are the enforcers and infiltrators of the M-M mafia. They are sent in when M-M wants something down with a little more finesse and secrecy, and when they can't micromanage a situation effectively from afar."

"So, that Medical Mechanica, really is real…" Mr. Welshman whispered to himself. We had brought these seven men into our circle out of necessity a few months ago. They had proven trustworthy thus far, even if they hadn't fully believed our story until that moment.

"And you think this one in particular…" George went on. "Orchestrated the sabotage and collapse of Roman's Mine, bought its land, assets and workers for pennies on the dollar, then murdered Roman to keep him quiet; framing it as the suicide of a ruined businessman?"

"What, you don't believe us?" Mr. Voyze demanded with his bulldog gruff.

"Oh no, quite the opposite." George remarked. "It sounds _exactly_ like something a Man in Black would do."

"There's something else though…isn't there?" Tommy asked, squinting at each of the men in turn. "C'mon, out with it."

"The sabotage has started on all of us now." Mr. Solomon said, speaking for the group. "Our fear is that this, Man in Black, is behind it, and if we do not act swiftly, the rest of us will suffer similar 'suicides.' This is to say nothing of the livelihoods of our employees."

"Well…" George waffled, I could already tell he was hating being put on the spot. George had never wanted my Father's job, Station Chief.

"Well…what? George?"

"Well, I'm wanting real bad to do something…but we don't know _for sure_ this's a real Man in Black." He said slowly and Tommy rolled his eyes in annoyance, throwing up his arms while the rest of us shifted nervously. "I mean, this could be someone from a rival company, some government spook…all kinds of things."

"But George! Our equipment is being wrecked, our men are scared to come to work!" Mr. King burst in.

"Unt vot off zee accident at mein site zee ozzer day?" Mr Dahl added his two cents. "Zis man visits me, zen there's a, a…monstrosity, tossing trucks like an angry child throwing toys?! A coincidence?!"

"He's right Carson. What's the matter, do you…"

"That's enough!" George snapped and was on his feet, off his truck's tailgate. "We are not the cops, we are not hitmen and certainly not your private detectives! You work for us, not the other way around. We will investigate what we deem fit to investigate. If you're having problems, my heart goes out to you, but unless you can give me better than a grainy photo, it's not Overwatch's problem. Do we understand each other?"

"…Yes, Mr. Carson." Mr. Solomon said after an uncomfortably long silence. "We understand. You cannot invest scarce resources without cause, and are not here to solve our personal problems, is that correct?"

"Yes Mr. Solomon. I'm glad we're all on the same page. Now, while you're all still here, our last item. What progress have you made on recruitment?" This was George's own project, his orders to carry out. I wasn't privy to the details, or really anything besides the tagline. But assignments for Station Chiefs have always been on a need-to-know basis, so that wasn't unusual. I just knew the general theme: Recruit, train and equip a locally-based response…and that's it, word for word.

"My foremen are all on board." Mr. Pike volunteered first. "Most of them were in the service, they didn't need much convincing."

"Their experience will be a great asset, and pray we never need to call on it. Mr. King…Mr. Solomon?" George cast around for the other six bosses to make their reports. "C'mon, don't hold out on me because I barked at you."

"All of our supervisors and foremen are in on it now George." Mr. Voyze said. "Some took a bit more convincing than others, but they came around. Now we just need to work on finding regular guys, right?"

"Right, I'm confident you'll surprise me next time we meet. Speaking of which, how about the same spot, same time, next week?" George was getting the meeting closed as it was starting to get dark.

"Unless something else happens in the meantime." Mr. Welshman predicted, tapping out his pipe on his boot-heel. "And, if you please, think on this, about the Man in Black. You know better'n anyone we're a hard bunch who don't scare easy. But lemme tell you this, and the rest of the guys'll back me up, this Man in Black…he's got us scared."

. . .

Monday morning. Work at eight, so up at six-thirty. Shower, jeans, old t-shirt that could get ruined. Breakfast, toast, fried eggs, microwaved sausage. Two ibuprofen for his already aching head, two more would follow at lunch. Steel-toe boots, two-liter thermos with water and ice cubes to beat the growing June heat, G&R official hat. Out the door, two hundred yards to work, Canti following like a seven foot tall shadow. Another day in the life of Naota Nandaba.

"Good morning Naota, headed for work?" Kamon asked as he packed his numerous bags to leave for Happy Valley, a camera and its accessories were now part of his equipment.

"Yeah Dad, same with you? Or are you running away to start a new life in California as a beach bum?" He smiled as Kamon closed the car trunk.

"Oh my, who are you and what have you done with my son? Was that a joke, humor?!" Kamon asked with amazement.

"Yes, I do happen to have a sense of humor." He sighed as Kamon shook his head in faux disbelief. "I even use it from time to time."

"Well I'm very glad. I think working for G&R's been good for you; Shigekuni's said you've made a friend there?"

"Yeah, Jeff Carson, you met his uncle and cousin our first day here. He's my supervisor, of sorts."

"Very good, very good. Before I go, how's your head? Anything new?"

"No, all's quiet. No activity."

"That much is a given fact, I meant the N.O. channel." Kamon kidded and Naota felt embarrassed for walking into such an easy joke. "We know there's no activity up there!"

"Oh ha-ha-ha! Very funny! Maybe you should try out a comedy club in Penn State while you're there." He took off his green work hat and ran his fingers through his now short-cropped hair. "Nothing since last week. George, Tommy and Rig all said it should be fine as long as I don't hit it on anything."

"Then be extra careful Naota." Kamon was in one of his rare moods of seriousness; when he appeared to Naota as a real adult. "I don't want anything bad happening to you, you and Shigekuni are all I have you know."

"I know, and I will, promise." He assured his father, wondering where this was coming from.

"That's what I wanted to hear. Now give your old man a hug." He gave Kamon a goodbye hug and watched his dad's sedan zoom on down the road; headed east. It was…different, having Kamon gone for the week, but he would survive. So he joined Canti on the road and both headed for work. He went feeling a little happier that morning and for once, Haruko wasn't even present in the darkest, deepest reaches of his mind.

"Howdy-do Naota!" Rig, with only a fifty yard walk, was waiting for him and finishing off his coffee. "How's the head? I know its Monday and everything."

"Attached, still functioning, and still hurts." He answered, holding in a yawn. "Anyway, good morning and thanks for asking. What're we doing today?"

"Well, George and Tommy and I had a pow-wow, and have decided you're not ready for crane work yet; especially with your concussion. For now, you're gonna help me 'round our property, learn some shop-type stuff too."  
"Sounds like fun, what's up first?" He asked, following Rig inside the shop. Now that it was daytime, he could actually see the rest of its inside. Immediately to his right was a plate bending press, ten feet tall and the same wide. Rollers to put curves to steel plates were next, then two shear cutting presses that dwarfed the bending press. To his front were workbenches, covered in tools, spare and odd parts, replacement blades for grinders, gloves, packets of wire, soldering tools, cigarette packs, broken BIC lighters, Rig's brand of tobacco tins, welding masks and Skippy's coffee cups. Along the back wall were drill presses, milling machines, band and table saws, racks of welding equipment and associated tools. Then a collection of lathes ranging from small ones bolted to tabletops to a pair large enough to turn drive shafts on. Two bays with sufficient room and equipment to service a tractor trailer or coal truck each occupied most of the space in the center/left, and then toolboxes, racks of sockets, wrenches and other smaller tools were behind that. The left wall was a floor to ceiling rack of compressed gas tanks; oxygen, acetylene, argon, helium, carbon dioxide and hydrogen chief among them.

"S'cuse us, pardon me, COMING THROUGH!" Mike announced, steering his forklift and its payload of steel plates towards the shears.

"Careful man!" Rig warned, ducking under the plates overhead. "Your depth perception's gettin' worse by the minute."

"But nowhere as near as bad as your game with the ladies Rig!" Josh heckled while he directed Mike, making sure the plates didn't slam into the shear's housing.

"See the love flowin' around here?" Rig grinned, pulling tools off their racks as they worked their way through the shop. One thing Naota notice as absent was the ten-foot tall Medical Mechanica robot. They had worked on it a few days more during the week, making good progress. Its arm and leg repaired, it could now stand and move just as well as before Tommy and Rig had fought it. But they were still having problems with its behavior. As Naota looked around, he could see no sign that it had even been in the shop, even Josh's bank of computers had been moved somewhere out of sight. Then Rig's voice broke in, interrupting his thoughts. "Oh yeah? And how much's that internet datin' running you? Forty, fifty a month?"

"Don't you have something productive to do?!" Josh answered, vanishing behind the shears to pull the plates forward.

"Okay Naota, I got everything we need, walk with me." His tools gathered, Rig headed outside and down the Boneyard's road. "Today's gonna be a few simple lessons. First of which, how to break into that truck."

"Is that, you know, legal?" He asked as they approached their target: a dark red Mack dump truck.

"If it belongs to you, or someone asks you and it belongs to them…then yes. You have no idea how many job sites we've gone to and there's someone losing their shit 'cause he's locked his keys in the truck. 'Sides, we've long lost the keys for this one and its due for a function and maintenance check-up."

"So we gotta break in?" Naota followed Rig around to the passenger side.

"We gotta break in. Hop on up an' I'll show you how it's done." They both took a stand on the running board and Rig held up a thin sliver of metal about two feet long, two inches wide, with a hook and notch cut into the side near the bottom. "Know what this is?"

"Uhhh…a really bad ruler? I dunno."

"It's a Slim Jim, for unlocking car and truck doors. You slip 'er in like so…" Rig slid the Slim Jim between the window and weather stripping, down into the door. "Wiggle an' wriggle like so…hook the lockin' lever annnnd…lift up." _Klunk._ The lock button pushed up and Rig opened the door. "Tah-freakin'-dah."

"That's a pretty cool trick. I've heard of it, but never seen it done. Can I try?"

"Of course!" Rig relocked the door, slammed it shut and held out the Slim Jim. "All yours." Naota took position and started easing the bar into the door. "Slide 'er in there nice an' slow…" Rig drawled, then had himself a laugh.

"Oh ha-ha. Real cool, if you're in fourth grade. Okay…locking bar, locking bar…" He felt around, feeling for and finding the bar. Hooked, he slowly pulled up and heard that satisfying _klunk._

"Very good, first try." Rig climbed into the cab, opening the driver's door. "Now you can do that the same with a coat hanger, or a wire if you're desperate. I've even seen people get real clever with shoelaces."

"I don't know if I'd have the patience for that. But hey, we got the door open, and you said we've lost the keys…so how do we start this thing? With a paperclip, some rubber bands and chewing gum?"

"We have arrived at the fun part. Hop into the captain's chair." Rig climbed down and Naota took the driver's seat; the ancient air-ride sagging under his weight. "Okay, you're gonna need some tools. Just toss 'em on the dash." Rig handed up a flat-head screwdriver, a wire stripping tool, parrot-beak wire cutters, a roll of electric tape and rubber gloves. "Now, use the screwdriver to _gently_ pry off that plastic covering around the ignition and steering column, and the panel underneath it."

"Ooookay…trying not to break anything…" He worked the plastic panels free and laid them on the passenger seat. "Next?"

"See that big ole' bundle of wires?" He did. "What you're looking for is the Power an' Starter ones. Power outta be red…Starter should be brown." Rig took the chance to pack his lip and chew while Naota twisted his neck to look under the steering column. "Find 'em yet?" He asked with a full lip.

"Got 'em."

" _Th-puh._ Now, get your cutters and snip the Power ones from the cylinder, yep, right there. Strip a good inch off, then twist the copper together." As he did, the lights, displays and radio all came online, blasting him with painfully loud music. Once he'd turned the radio off, he asked what next. "Tape 'em together or they'll fall apart. Now, put your gloves on."

"Why the gloves? I didn't get shocked with the first wires."

"Because these ones have a live current, and will shock you, and it will hurt, a lot! Foot on the clutch, is the lever in neutral?" He pushed the clutch to the floor and checked the gear selector to ensure it was free-moving. "Once you've cut the Starter wires free and stripped them, twist the ends together when you're ready. Be sure to give it some gas when it starts so it doesn't stall. Okay, let's see if it'll go." Naota took a deep breath, let it out and tapped the wires together. There was a small spark and the engine started to turn. Surprised at the suddenness of the starter engaging, he jumped, let the wires fall apart and the engine fell silent.

"Almost, try 'er again." Rig encouraged. He touched the wires again, this time pinching them tightly together. The engine started up with a few pushes on the gas, settling into its gruff idle. "Heeey! There yah go! We'll have to start callin' you Niko Bellic eh? 'Kay, tape over those two wires so they don't shock you; I'll be right up."

"Wait, aren't you driving?" Rig had sat in the passenger seat, pulled his door shut and propped his knee-high, multi-buckled and steel-shod boots on the dash. "I don't know how to drive a truck."

"Then you's gonna learn. Yah know the basic concept of stick-shift?" Rig asked, spitting out the window while he waited for an answer.

"Clutch in and off the gas, move the lever, on gas and out clutch?"

"Yeeeah…that's close 'nough for government work. Same here, 'cept you've got different ranges. You'll start in low, go to the top of that, back to one, but in mid by that little lever there, then back to one and high range."

"That is a stupid amount of shifting." Naota said, trying to remember the gear pattern. "So Low-Low first?" He put the lever far left and back, feeling it drop into place.

"Mmm-hmm. Now ease off the clutch and ease on the gas, whenever you're ready." Naota began easing off the clutch, gently pressing the gas pedal, afraid to take it too quickly. Then entire truck rumbled, the engine shuddered and shut off.

"What?! What happened? Did I break something?"

"Nope. You stalled out. Too much clutch, not enough gas. Un-tape your Starter wires and start 'er up again."

"Sorry…I've just never driven a car even…" He explained, fiddling with the Starter wires. A small spark and the truck roared to life again. "Okay, let's try this again."

"Feel free to take your time. We've got allll day for you to get it right." Rig said, possibly as a promise, or a joking threat. "Clutch out, gas on…" _WrrroohhOOOAAMMMM!_ Not wanting to stall again, he pushed twice as hard on the gas and the engine revved louder, belching smoke out its stacks. "Oh-whoa! Easy Seabiscuit, too much gas, too much!"

"Sorry!" At Rig's warning, Naota eased off, only to have the truck stall again. "…Goddammit."

"Sucks don't it?" Rig sympathized. "Let's try again, third time's the charm." This time he got started, in gear and moving without trouble. "Okay, first gear!" Rig ordered. Clutch, ease off gas, up and slightly right, on gas, off clutch. They were now moving only slightly above a crawl. "Second!" They were still at a snail's pace, but the transitions were coming easier. "Take us left, out to the runway and gimme third."

"This isn't so bad." Naota said as they slowly trundled through the Boneyard. He got into fourth, was ready to make the turn and go back to first, but in mid gear, when Rig ruined everything.

"Good…good…STOP!" He yelled and Naota slammed on the brakes, causing the truck to lurch as it stopped. And, in his panic, he forgot the clutch and the truck stalled out again.

"What the hell was that for?!"

"You gotta be able to stop in these things." Rig explained, completely serious. "What if some little kid runs out in front of you? _Squish…_ goes little Billy."

"…Fair enough. Oh, damn. We've stalled again."

"We've got alllllll day man…alllll day long…"

. . .

"In what police are calling 'brazen foolishness', a local high school student has been suspended after he was caught pouring bleach into a classmate's fuel tank; in an attempt to sabotage it for a so-called 'revenge prank.'" The newscaster reported, then jumped right into the weather without missin' a beat. Naota had finally gotten the hang of driving stick-shift. By lunchtime he was doing doughnuts with that dump truck. We'd spent the rest of Monday practicing on a few other cars and trucks around the shop, breakin' into 'em, hot-wirin' and how to drive all different sorts. He, like every sane person, hates stick-shift on the column the most. It was proving to be a stumbling block, but he caught onto everything else with surprising ease. But now that I'd taught him how to get into cars and drive them around…it was time to show him how to kill them.

"Ain't that crazy? Dude puttin' bleach in the gas tank?" Naota and I were having lunch in the shop, watching the news on 'the company's' official Panasonic TV; it was older than both of us combined.

"Wouldn't that ruin the engine?" He asked, the warning signs of interest starting to show. "Then again, I suppose that was the point."

"It could, given enough time. If you want to truly destroy a car, there's much better ways."

"Like what?"

"Well…tell you what. We have a junker we're plannin' on sending to the scrap yard anyway." I finished off my sandwich and turned off the TV. "Help me grab some stuff and we'll have some fun with it. Here, hold this." I picked up a spare cardboard box from the pile next to the grease and fluids racks. We have to order axle grease by the box, as many vehicles we have that need it. "Okay…gonna need some of these." A small bag of nails. "Screwdriver…" Into the box she goes. "Wire cutters, bottle of bleach, bag of oil absorbent powder….annnd a funnel. That'll do us."

"All this to kill a car?" He looked into the box. "Seems a bit much."

"Not unless you're going to destroy it, so that it'll never be driven again. Then this's just a good start. Alright, let's go meet our victim." We walked around to the far end of the shop, the half that functions as our garage. Just inside, next to the wall, was a '94 Grand Am. The paint was peeling, it was rusted to hell and back, the plastic molding flaking off and faded…God I hated that thing. Why did we even have it? Whose genius idea was it to bring it home? Probably mine, now that I think about it, when I thought I was going to make a living racing stock cars. Gotta have dreams. Anyway…

"Yuck." Naota summed that car up in one word. "Okay, yeah. This car needs to die. It'll be a mercy killing. Why is it here anyway?"

"I think it was a barter for some work we did, or a trade for something else. There was probably a plan to use it as a stock car…"

"But then Fiero?"

"Fiero. Either way, we got ripped off with this thing."

"Then let's get your money's worth. What first?"

"First, we gotta get into it."

"Let me guess, no keys? One second…" Naota took the Slim Jim from the box and in five Mississippi's, had the doors unlocked.

"You're getting scary good at that, yah know?" I said and popped the hood.

"Hey, everyone's gotta have a talent."

"Too true. So this's actually pretty simple. What, fundamentally, makes a car work?"

"Uh…gas for power, wheels for bearing and traction…" He got half on his first guess.

"And oil for lubrication, and water or antifreeze for cooling. So, if we attack any of those four legs, the table cannot stand, follow?"

"Sounds right. So what first, bleach in the tank?"

"Nope. Bleach in the tank doesn't really do much. However…" I unscrewed the oil fill cap. "Puttin' it in the oil will really ruin it. The bleach'll basically thin out the oil and also start to eat at everything it touches. It'll burn out the engine in a few dozen miles. Go ahead, start pouring." I handed him the half gallon jug and the funnel, getting an 'Are you _sure_ this's okay?' look in return. "They're gonna put it in the crusher anyway, so anything we do to it is moot."

"In that case, bottoms up." He poured in the bleach and recapped the oil fill port. "Quarter of the way there."

"So oil's down. Left is tires, fuel and coolant. Fuel and coolant, we can actually get at the same way, with a little help from this." I plunked the bag of oil spill powder on the car's roof.

"Oil spill powder?" He didn't look convinced.

"Oil spill powder."

"Really?" He didn't sound convinced either.

"Really."

"The stuff that's basically over-priced kitty litter?"

"The very same." I grinned.

"Show me."

"Okay, so this stuff is, basically like you said, over-priced clumping kitty litter. When it contacts fluids, it'll suck it up and harden into a solid brick. You've seen the guys use this a few times in the shop." I explained and used my pocketknife to slit the bag open. Then I unscrewed the radiator's fill cap. "Get a little bit of this into your lines and they'll clog like Ronald McDonald's arteries. Here, I'll hold the funnel and you pour."

"So the antifreeze'll clog up the lines, no flow means no cooling, and the engine roasts. Got it. But…" He poured in half and I stopped him, we needed the other half yet. "Don't fuel tanks nowadays have like, a mesh or filter or something to prevent you from siphoning or putting stuff in the tank?"

"That's why we have this." I held up the screwdriver, a stout, foot and a half long unit. "Here, put this in there and hammer on it 'till you break through." He really gave that anti-siphon mesh a good whack, then filled the tank with the rest of the oil powder.

"Okay, tires are all that's left." He walked 'round the car, trying to figure out how to best attack them. I held back, letting him think it through. Can't hold his hand for everything you know. "Heeyy…hand me four of those nails, and one of the flaps from the box." I ripped off the chunk and handed it over with four, two inch long nails. He ripped the cardboard into four smaller squares, then drove a nail through the center of each one. Then, he placed each nail tip-up just in front of the tires. "There, that'll do it."

"Very good, the cardboard holds the nail upright, so when the car pulls forward, the nail will go cleanly into the tire and won't fall over. Nice!"

"Plus you can set it and leave it, like a mouse trap." He added. "I wouldn't want to be anywhere near someone's car when they find out what I've done to it."

"You and me both! Speaking of that, lunch's over and we need to make a run for supplies. We'll leave the car for whoever gets stuck with taking it to the scrap yard."

"I'm sure they'll love that…" He said and I started for one of our work trucks, expecting him to follow, but I didn't hear his boots crunching behind me.

"What're you doing?"

"Leaving my mark." He explained, drawing a large ' ** _P!_** ' on the windshield's dust. "That alien woman I told you about, had this symbol on her Vespa. Trouble always seemed to follow her, so I figure it's fitting to leave it here."

"Hmmm…that makes sense. Wonder what that symbol means, if anything?"

"Who knows?" He shrugged, finishing the symbol and admiring his handiwork. "Anyway, shouldn't we be going? I can't imagine your Uncle being happy with us trashing this car, even if it is going to the crusher."

"Uhhh…yeah. Good point." I agreed and we walked to a work truck to start our errands. I wasn't worried though, George wouldn't mind in the least about sacrificing that Grand Am. After all, what's one beater car when training someone wanted dead by the bane of the Galaxy? Chump change, that's what.

. . .

 _Baboooooomm… Babooommmm… Bah-bah-bah-booooommm…_ It was a war, surely it was. The shots had started five minutes before, a few pops on and off. But now they were echoing up from Carson property and into Naota's living room. What Rig and his family were up to on that Saturday afternoon was anyone's guess, but Naota was determined to find out. Battling his common sense, he tied his boots, put on his G &R hat and headed on down the hill to find the source of the racket.

"I _knew_ it was you!" He said, finding Rig at the end of G&R's Boneyard. "What the hell're you doing out here? I can hear whatever it is from my house."

"Target practice! What else, 'cept for huntin' Commies maybe…just kidding!" Rig laughed, waving Naota around the white toolbox truck to a table containing, what appeared to Naota, his arsenal. "Ever shot a gun?"

"Besides airsoft you mean?" He asked, finding himself unblinkingly staring at the guns laid on the first card table. There were five of them, two pistols, a shotgun, a long rifle and the only one he could name: an AK-47.

"You mean those plastic, made in China toys? Yeah, 'sides them." Naota heard about half the words, but managed to shake his head. "Hey, Earth to Naota…"

"Is all this…legal?" He found himself asking that a lot when he hung out with Rig, now that he thought about it. He looked over at Rig who was giving him his best mad-hatter grin. "I mean, that's an AK-47. The bad guys in all the movies and games use them."

"As they should, it's actually a great gun. And yes, of course it's all legal! You're in the Good Ole' U-S of A man! We have this beautiful thing called the Second Amendment: A well-regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the People to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed." Rig recited with a genuinely passionate zeal. This afternoon already promised to be interesting.

"What does that make you then, with this, arsenal?" He just then noticed the metal cans of ammunition and a pile of what looked like some form of combat gear piled next to it. "A freedom fighter or something?"

"Nah! Just your average Joe, exercising his constitutional rights. Hey, since you've moved here, that includes you too. Wanna learn how to shoot, or pick politics all day?"

"Yeah, yeah sure. So…what're we shooting first?"

"First, we gotta get the boring part out of the way. Rules." Rig said, killing half the fun without firing a shot.

"Rules…? Oh Rig, stick a needle in my why don't you?" He joked, trying to use some humor to relieve his own tension. Never having been even within arm's reach of a real gun, he was feeling his nerves.

"Pain, I know, but necessary. First, whenever you encounter a gun, like these on the table or when someone hands you one, _always_ assume it's loaded. No matter what, for this and all of these rules. Second is to make sure your gun is always pointed in a safe direction at all times."

"Even if it's…" He started.

"Even if it's unloaded, yes. _YOU_ may know it's unloaded, but the other guy may not. Besides, no one likes having a muzzle flashed in their face. So basically, never point the barrel at anything you ain't willing to destroy."

"No Mulligans once the trigger's pulled huh?"

"Exactly. Speakin' of that, Rule Three. Always keep your finger off that trigger until you're ready to shoot. And last, you must be one hundred and ten percent sure of your target and what's behind it. Bullets have that nasty habit of going through things, even metal plate."

"Sounds simple enough." He was still eyeballing that AK in his periphery.

"Then repeat 'em back to me." Rig challenged, standing square to Naota with his arms crossed.

"Always assume the gun's loaded, pointed in a safe direction, keep my finger off the trigger and be aware of what's behind my target."

"You pay 'ttention. I like that, you'll go far man. Okay, then let's get started. Normally, I'd give you a twenty-two to start on, but these are more fun…"

"A twenty-two? What's that?"

"Oh damn, I'm sorry. I'm just assuming stuff again. Since you've been makin' love eyes at it this whole time, we'll start with the AK." Rig picked up the gun, took out the magazine and opened the bolt to show it was empty. "Here, I showed you it was empty, so go ahead and get a feel for it." He said, taking a small scope off its mount, setting that on the table and handing over the gun. Naota took the AK-47 from Rig and nearly dropped it, unaware of how heavy it would feel; easily seven or eight pounds. "Heavy ain't it?"

"A little, for not being all that big." Rig chuckled and after letting Naota look it over a bit, took the gun back.

"And it's considered a lighter gun, think on that. Now here's another boring part, but none the less important; we'll get through it together." Naota leaned against the truck as Rig cleared his throat, then began his lecture. "Alrighty. This's an AK-47, or Avtomat Kalishnikova as the Russkies call it. It shoots a thirty caliber round, caliber means zero point three zero of an inch across. So, a fifty cal is half an inch across. More popularly, this round is also called a seven point six two by thirty nine millimeter, with seven six two being how big across the bullet is in millimeters and thirty nine how long the entire cartridge, bullet and all, is. Now, this AK's had some work done to it, so it can take twenty or thirty round double-stack magazines. Here's one, take a look."

"What's double-stack?" He asked, turning the magazine filled with green hulled shells, the copper jacketed bullets shining in the sun.

"It's how the bullets sit in the magazine. Single stack ones sit right on top of each other, while double stack ones are slightly offset. That way, you can fit the same number of rounds in a shorter mag, takes up less space. See? That part under the bullets is called the follower, it follows the bullets up. There's a spring under it that keeps pressure on it to feed the bullets up through the magazine." Finished with the magazine, Rig took it back and laid it on the table, picking up the AK again. "This part's kinda involved, so stop me if I'm going too fast. These are the basic parts, pretty standard for assault rifles. Here's your barrel, front and rear sights, this's a mount for its scope, the forestock or foregrips, bolt, the firing pin, breach and chamber, the adjustment for the rear sight, magazine well and release, fire selector lever that doubles as your safety too, trigger, trigger guard, the scope itself, a little four power with a holographic display, annnd…buttstock. Nothin' fancy about it except for the scope." Rig went over the AK's features, pointing them out and opening the bolt so Naota could look inside. "You get all that?"

"I…think so? There isn't going to be a quiz on all this, is there?" Rig roared with laughter at the idea and shook his head no. "Good! So how's it actually work, like internally? I've seen the movies and played some games, but that's about it."

"First, you put your mag in like so, see how it has that lip on it? You have to catch that on the magazine well, or when you let go of the magazine, it'll fall to the ground, and you don't want that. Very embarrassing. Then you pull back on the bolt handle, see how the other rounds are pushed up when the bolt grabs the first one? On the bolt's face is this little claw called an extractor. It'll hold the round in place, then pull it out of the chamber when its been fired. Then, just let the bolt go forward on its own…" Rig let the bolt go with a loud _Ch-Chik!_ "Now we're loaded!"

"Okay. Now, I know about the primer, then gunpowder turning to gas and pushing the bullet down the barrel, but how does it work for, like, semi or full auto?"

"This gun has a gas-piston system. See this tube on top of the barrel? That gas from the powder gets tapped from a little hole in the barrel, then hits a piston rod, in this tube. That piston pushes back the bolt, it and the extractor kicks out the empty round, hits the return spring just under this metal covering, then picks up a new round from the magazine and everything resets. On full auto, this gun'll do that entire operation six hundred times…a minute."

"Now that's firepower. Does this one do full-auto?"

"…No." Rig said after a scarcely noticeable pause, like he was catching himself from saying something he shouldn't. Maybe he was just catching his breath with all the talking he was doing, and Naota left it at that. "There's a part in here that catches the hammer after it fires, keeping it from hitting the firing pin. Now, if I were to commit a felony, and file down that little part a few millimeters, it would fire full-auto. See how stupid gun laws even here are? Anyway, this gun will fire as fast as you can pull the trigger. Wanna try your hand?"

"You bet I do, let's go already!" This was a chance to shoot an AK-47, the gun of resistance fighters the world over. How could he pass this up?!

"Turn 'round then and face downrange." Rig directed and Naota found himself facing an obstacle course of old machinery, cars and plywood and steel walls with purpose-cut slots in them. There was also an army of silhouette targets scattered throughout the two hundred yard long course. Some were steel plate cutouts and others paper on cardboard sheets and wooden frames. "Put your feet a little wider than shoulder width apart…good. Stand sideways to the targets, so the gun'll be across your body, not at a ninety degree angle."

"Like this?" Naota repositioned as directed.

"Yep. Okay, here's your gun." Rig handed him the AK, sans magazine. "AHEM! Are we forgetting something?" He reminded and Naota sheepishly pulled back the bolt to check the chamber and make sure it was unloaded. "Thank you. Ready up, right hand here, left hand here, no, yes, no, there, stop moving! There. Put the stock in that little pocket of your shoulder, good. Get your cheek down and welded onto the stock. That way, when the gun goes off, your body will move with it and the recoil will feel much less. See your sights?"

"Uh-huh…" He grunted with his cheek mashed onto the laminated wood stock. Already he was starting to feel the unaccustomed weight pulling on his arms.

"Line up the front sight in the middle of the back on, and so that the top of the front is level with the back one. Got that?"

"Yeeep."

"Okay, hold still." Rig reached under the gun to lock in a magazine, over to push down the selecter lever to semi and finally pull back and release the bolt. "Weapon is now hot. Pick a target…how about that hanging plate at thirty yards?" Rig suggested a chest-high steel disk, hanging by a chain from one of the steel plate walls. "Slow your breathing, in, hold it, out, fire. Squeeze the trigger with the last pad of your finger, fire when your lungs are empty; the shot should be a pleasant surprise." Naota resettled his hold and cheek weld on the gun, slowing his breathing and gently pressing the trigger. Squeeze…squeeze… _BANG!_ If fired and there was an echoing _Pling!_ As the bullet hit its target.

"Beginner's luck." Rig said, but nodded in approval. "Again." Naota lined up on the plate…squeeze…squeeze… _BANG!...Pling!_

"Again." _BANG!...Pling!_

"Again." _BANG!...Pling!_ "Again." _BANG!...Pling!_ Rig ordered him to fire faster after each shot, increasing the tempo until he was firing a shot every second.

"Oh, I'm out." The trigger pulled and clacked uselessly with no round in the chamber to fire.

"Here, fresh mag. Load it up and we'll find you a new target." Rig handed him another magazine and took the empty one. Naota reloaded himself and brought the AK up to his shoulder. "New targets. That row of plates fifty yards out looks good. Hit 'em and they'll fall over. Fire when ready." As Naota engaged the row of steel disks, he found his face tugging into a smile. The recoil wasn't anywhere near as bad as he thought it'd be. The AK thudded with gentle shoves into his shoulder. He could feel the piston snapping back and the internal workings cycle with a sharp, metallic clack at each shot, the bolt unlocking to eject the old shell and bring in a new one. Spent shells spun through the air, their metallic green hulls sprinkling into a growing pile on the ragged shale. It was an immensely satisfying feeling to hear the clang of a successful hit, each time a bullet knocked over a plate. Once he ran out of rounds, Naota turned to Rig, who was having himself a good laugh.

"What's so funny?"

"You man. I know the look on your face well. You've got stars for eyes and look like you've discovered the greatest thing since canned beer."

"It is! I had no idea it was this much fun, shooting. Can we really do this whenever we want?"

"Technically, no. We're too young to actually own guns, gotta be eighteen for rifles and shotguns; twenty one for pistols. If anyone ever asks, these guns all belong to George…understand?" Rig asked with a serious edge to his tone and Naota nodded that they were on the same page. "Good. But yeah, if you're willin' to help cover the cost of ammo and help me clean the guns after we're done, then we can shoot whenever you want."

"Awesome. Thank you, this's too cool. Uhm…do you think we could…" He nodded at the other four guns still on the table.

"Oh, I see. You've had your free first hit, and are comin' back to your dealer for your next fix?" Rig teased, taking back the AK, putting it down and picking up the long rifle. "Of course we can. Here, get that bucket, we'll use it for a chair. Okay, now there's a story behind this gun…"

Through the course of the afternoon, Naota learned the operation, uses and a little of the history behind the rest of Rig's guns. Pistols were for muggers, carjackers and pickpockets. Shotguns were for trespassers and home invasions. Rifles were for hunting and if you had to 'reach out and touch someone.' Finally, 'AK-47's and AR-15's are for people who try to take your guns away from you...elected or otherwise.'

The long rifle was a 0.30-06 Remington 760. It was a five shot, magazine fed and pump action rifle with a ten power scope that allowed it to 'hammer nails at four hundred yards'. Rig had inherited it from his grandfather and said Remington 760's were the 'standard issue' hunting rifle of Pennsylvania; everyone and their brother had one. Next was another Remington, an 870 Express shotgun. It boasted a full stock with an added pistol grip, a rack along the receiver that held five extra 12-guage shells, and an extended magazine tube to contain seven plus one rounds of intimidation. The first pistol was a Ruger P90, a blued, heavy fireball of 0.45 caliber slugs. While he liked the feel of the gun in his hands, the ease of its operation and the power of 0.45 ACP, Naota had yet to get over the pistol's recoil. Lastly was another Ruger, a GP100 with a four inch barrel. Of all the guns Rig had, he seemed to hold that stainless-steel, rubber hogue-gripped and 0.357 magnum chambered revolver in the highest and most precious regard. He has hesitated to let Naota shoot it, taking a full five seconds of consideration to pass it over; immediately taking it back once Naota had emptied the only cylinder he shot out of it.

"Now, I have to ask Rig." He pointed to the olive drab colored pile of gear next to the truck. "What exactly, is that?"

"Oh, this? It's my setup. Here, try it on." Rig hefted the pile of straps, pouches and webbing and buckled the entire affair onto Naota. "Whaddyah think? Cool huh?"

"I feel like a walking Call of Duty." The, set-up, as Rig had put it, was a full-bodied loadout. They went through everything on it, from the ground up.

A set of knee pads were secured with two buckles each to his legs. Next was a low holster on his right leg, secured with two buckle straps to his thigh, then a vertical strap buckled into his belt. That holster held the Ruger P90 and two spare magazines. A pouch on his left leg, secured in the same manner, held two P90 magazines, and revolver speed loaders. It also had four baseball-sized pouches on the outside of it, but they were empty. Next up was a belt that held up the holster and leg pouches, with two MORE P90 magazines and revolver speed loaders, the AK-47's bayonet because why not, two canteens, a multi-tool, the GP100 in a cross-draw holster at the small of his back, and two empty soup can sized pouches, one on each side of the buckle. All of this on the belt and itself, was held up with a set of suspenders. Over the suspenders and above the belt was a vest that dropped over his head and secured under his arms with vice tight Velcro pads. The back-bottom-left of the vest had a bag attached to it called a drop-pouch, for spent magazines. Right of that, in the low-middle was a kit containing more supplies: batteries, scissors, tape, gloves, goggles, matches, a lighter, fire starting materials, folding saw, a headlamp, and an Alpenflage patterned poncho. On the low-right side of the vest's back was a large medical kit that could treat anything from cuts and burns to chemical exposure and sucking chest wounds. The front of the vest carried eight AK-47 magazines, a large Buck 119 knife strapped in a draw-down position, a small cleaning kit for the guns and ever more pockets. They were filled with a pen, pencil, paper, maps of Pennsylvania, Clearfield and Centre counties, rope, a flashlight, compass, bandages, industrial safe sunglasses, an emergency road flare, two glowsticks, a small GPS, and the components for a radio complete with headset, transmitter and battery pack.

"Holy shit Rig, this weighs a ton!" He said, trying to walk around, and failing to get more than a few steps without stumbling. All the extra weight and material hanging off him made just walking difficult and physically awkward. "And…are these steel plates in this thing?" He rapped his knuckles on his chest, hearing and feeling something densely solid. There was a plate on his chest, back and even one under each arm from his armpits down to his hips.

"Partly. It's a sammich of boron-carbide and Kevlar layers, then a final quarter inch steel plate as a backer. It's heavy, but I need some weight to run around with during practice, so when I run the course, I feel lighter."

"Course, what course?" Naota asked, beginning to peel the layers of equipment off.

"Three-Gun. It's a competition where you run an obstacle course, but with three different guns and shooting at targets along the way. There's different classes, I'm in one where you have to carry all your stuff with you, which is why I have to haul around so much crap. But everyone will carry a rifle, a shotgun and a pistol, three guns. You're timed, time gets tacked on for misses, and whoever runs the course the fastest, wins."

"Is that what all this is then?" Naota pointed to the maze of walls, junk and targets. "Your training course?"

"Uh-huh. Hey, we're almost out of ammo for today, but I have enough left for one run-through. Wanna put the gear back on and give it a shot?" Rig offered, holding out the vest.

"I'll let you practice. You've let me shoot a lot of ammo today, that's enough for one afternoon. I'll watch this one and maybe try it next time." He compromised.

"Okie-dokie, suit yerself. Lemme get gussied up, here, you can time me." Rig donned his gear, hooked the AK-47's sling onto a strap on his vest, holstered the P90 on his leg, the GP100 at the small of his back, and handed Naota the shotgun. "Carry this for me to the second stage wouldja? There'll be a table with a blanket on it, just lay the shotgun there when we reach it, okay?"

"Sure thing." Naota slung the 870 onto his shoulder and turned on the timer Rig had handed him. "Ready whenever you are, do you want like, a countdown or something?"

"A three, two, one, beep, that'd be perfect." Rig agreed after double checking all of his gear was in place. He stood with his arms slack at his side, AK hanging freely by its sling. "Start me off."

"Three…two…one…" Naota counted and hit START on the timer. It chimed with a high pitched BEEEEEP! And Rig went into action.

First up were three silhouette targets at thirty yards, peeking from behind a stack of barrels, a junked truck and a water tank. Rig put two rounds into each while walking forward at a brisk pace; rolling his feet to help keep the gun level and on target. He reached the targets, with Naota right behind him, and turned left to put three rounds into a surprise target to their right, next to an oil barrel. Rig turned on the safety with a hard clack, then sprinted thirty yards to a steel plate wall with narrow slits cut into it at haphazard angles. He started with the top one, at chest height but cut at a forty five degree angle. Rig slid the barrel through so the fore stock rested on the metal, and fired at the first of seven silhouettes; these made of steel plate. _BANG-BANG!...PING-PING!...BANG-BANG!...PING-PING!_ He fired in hammered pairs, then dropped to his knee to fire through the next slit; this one cut at the opposite angle. Four more shots, four more pings. Then he stood, swapping hands to shoot lefty around the left side of the wall; four more shots, then the same to the right. The safety clacked back on and he sprinted to their right and forward, sliding behind the cover of a sedan's rusted hulk. He lay on his side, firing under the car at a series of steel plates forty yards out. He missed three shots out of twelve, then rolled over to his opposite side. The first magazine expended, it was placed in the drop pouch and a full one pulled from his vest. Reloaded, he fired six more times, then rose to a crouch to engage the same targets from behind the car's trunk; still left handed. Standing and switching hands again, he ran around the car and into another thirty yard sprint. He turned right at a plywood wall, firing four shots at a silhouette nearly ten yards away behind a stack of cinder blocks. He then fired through windows cut into the plywood walls, aiming at targets easily seventy yards out. With his misses starting to accumulate, he reloaded and completed the stage, running right to the end of the wall and turned left. He dropped to his stomach upon turning the corner, firing the rest of his magazine at three more targets waiting in ambush.

"Have that shotgun ready!" Rig ordered as they ran another ten yards to a card table, already stocked with shotgun ammunition. Naota laid the shotgun down and sprang back out of the way. Rig put his AK on the table, ripping off the AK magazine pouches with a crackle of Velcro and slapped on a new patch that carried fifty shotgun shells in neat rows of ten. He then clipped the shotgun's sling into the same strap the AK had hung from. Seven loose shells were already on the table and Rig loaded them while on the move, running twenty yards to another wall with the precut slits. He repeated the process from the first wall and reloaded as he ran to the next station. Two targets became visible along the way and he engaged them while on the move, then two more were found behind an old set of caterpillar tracks.

A series of walls clustered like hallways were next. Rig worked his way through the rooms quickly; making sure to check his corners at each new doorway. Buckshot rang against steel targets and the building was cleared. For the last thirty yards, Rig slid the shotgun around so it hung across his back and drew his P90. The targets were much closer now, twenty yards to twenty feet, but appeared with alarming frequency. Two left, two front, two right, advance, one middle, one to their immediate left, and then a last row of eight inch plates. Now Rig's shots were starting to go wide, one round even hitting the dirt in front of the plate's rack. But he cleared them all, holstered his P90 and rushed forward. At the end of the plate rack was a 100-lb tube of sand.

"Oh fuckity-fuck-fuck, I hate this part…" Rig swore as he squatted to heft the sandbag onto and across his shoulders. "Jesus Harold Christ, this's heavy!" He stood with shaky knees and began a brisk walk…back to where they had initially started. Puffing, huffing, red-faced, dripping sweat and swearing profusely, Rig made it to the truck and shooting bench. He dropped the sandbag with a weight indicating thump, but wasn't finished.

He had dropped the sandbag onto a pressure plate, something off to the side Naota had missed earlier. From behind a low cinder block wall, right next to the hill, one last silhouette sprang up; released by the pressure plate. Rig, in one fluid motion, pivoted ninety degrees to his right, drew his GP100 and fired all six shots into the silhouette; completing the course.

"Time!" He wheezed, doubled over after holstering his revolver. "How'd I do?"

"Five minutes, thirty five point six seconds." Naota read the timer. "Is that a good time…a bad one?"

"It's…okay. Could be better." Rig said, taking off his vest and unbuckling his equipment belt. "It's a lot better than when I first started."

"How long was that?"

"Nine forty five. The sandbag part always gets me. It's supposed to represent your wounded buddy and you have to carry him to safety." Rig walked over to the last silhouette and waved Naota over to take a look. Upon closer inspection, there were actually two torsos and heads painted onto the steel plate. The front one was white and offset a foot to the right. The second one, behind it, was red; mostly covered by the white body. "This's 'sposed to simulate a hostage. You're trying to hit the red guy, and not the white one."

"Looks like you shot the hostage then." He traced the bullet's pockmark on the paint, on the white silhouette's right shoulder.

"What? Lemme see." Rig leaned in for a better look. "Bah, we can write that one off."

"But you shot him, right in the shoulder!"

"Exactly, the shoulder. They'll live, it's just a flesh wound. How about this, save some money so Tommy can buy us the ammunition, and _you_ can run the course; and not shoot the hostage."

"Sounds fair to me." He agreed, already excited.

"Nice, in the meantime, help me get this stuff squared away. Now we get to go take the guns apart, the real fun part."

. . .

"Nice shootin' there Tex." Rig commented while Naota fought the urge to pass out. He had just finished his first run of Rig's 3-Gun course, eleven minutes flat. By the time he had reached the final hostage target, his hands shook so badly he was barely able to draw the GP100. "And you gave me shit for shooting the hostage."

"Hey, this one was survivable…probably." He pointed at the pockmark on the right side of the hostage's head. "I just shot his ear off. Think of it this way, they can dress up as Van Goh for Halloween."

"WHAT?!" Rig shouted, cupping his hand to his ear.

"I said they could…"

"WHAT?! Sorry, I'm a tad deaf after some hot-shot kid blew my ear off!"

"Oh shut up." Naota sighed as Rig cackled.

"Alright, alright. Reload and ready up; we'll run it again but focus on _aiming_ this go-around; no timer. Ready? Three…two…one…GO!"

. . .

June came and went by in a blur, giving way to July. It was a time with little idleness, that being the Devil's workshop and all. Work at G&R ensured that Naota was thoroughly occupied during the day. And, if it wasn't work directly, Rig was teaching him something either work-related or just for fun. Over the month, Naota's resume grew at an exponential rate. He learned MIG, TIG and arc welding, cutting with a torch and plasma cutter, running the presses, shears and machinery in the shop, could turn parts on a lathe accurate to one thousandth of an inch. The controls of bulldozers, excavators, trucks and cars of all shape, make or model were no longer unfamiliar, nor were the handlebars of dirt bikes and four wheelers. Talking over the radios while out on jobs with Rig and Tommy, whether HAM, CB or private channels was another skill he had picked up. The Fourth of July festivities had brought an all-day extravaganza of explosions. They created all manner of bombs to destroy old microwaves, a mini-fridge and junk from the Boneyard. Recipes for the dastardly devices were taken from Rig's Bible: a printed-off volume called The Anarchist's Cookbook. Match-sugar charge and cast iron tube pipe bombs lit with a simple fuse, pressure cookers with black powder and…the king of them all…Tannerite. Between the two of them and help from the rest of G&R staff, they built a, well, device, that weighed fifty pounds and was activated by a stick of TNT of dubious origins, and a sacrificial Nokia cell phone. That '94 Grand Am had no idea what had it it...and tossed it ten feet into the air.

He had also gotten much faster at running Rig's 3-Gun course, even with him changing the layout week to week. He discovered the rest of G&R participated in the course on Sundays, each with their own customized loadout and gear. The only similarity was that they all carried an AK-47, a 12-guage shotgun, and a Ruger P90. They said they were 'hoping to put together a competitive team someday.' In the meantime, Naota and Rig started supplementing their 3-Gun workout with morning and evening runs, using the home-built gym tucked into the corner of the shop. Push-ups, sit-ups, bench, squat, dead lift and pull-ups were the basic staples, coupled with more running up and down the emergency runway the Carson's maintained for the county; a half mile of bulldozed rock gouged into the mountainside.

They had also gotten Rig's second, well, fourth, maybe even fifth-hand, '78 Bronco up and running. With the last of the rust ground off, Rig had painted the main body the same bright orange as his Ought-Too, and the removable cap for the cargo bay was now a glossy black. With four on the floor, Naota and Rig taught the state's narrow, twisting, hairpin and switchback roads the meaning of having no fear; in a competition to see who could push the old truck the farthest past its limits. Rig also used their new mobility to show Naota the finer points of tailing and following other cars; accidentally discovering the extramarital habits of the UPS man along the way. A CB and private channel radio, and a police scanner installed in the Bronco kept them clear of the cops, giving them plenty of advance warning when an officer was close enough to bring their fun to a screeching halt. It was the most surreal summer Naota had experience in his sixteen years, and couldn't believe it was almost half over already. But if the first month was any indicator, the adventure was just getting warmed up. Then, Rig called to say his guitar was finally fixed.

. . .

I'd finally gotten all the dings, dents, gouges, gashes and smashed bits put right; it was music time. Granted, I'm…not, the _greatest_ player, but if at least half of Naota's claims were true, then together we could at least make some serious noise.

 _What's up N?_ I texted him on his 'company phone.' I'd given it to him after the robot at Dahl's site. The phone had all of our contacts, mine, George, Tommy, the shop, so he could speed dial us if needed. It had a few other odds and ends, but let's stay on topic eh?

 _Not much. Nothing on TV. U?_

 _Guitar's fixed. Grab your bass and come over._

 _Awesome! Be there in 5._ All right, game on.

. . .

"I wonder what kind of guitar Rig has?" Naota wondered aloud, lifting the Rickenbacker off its stand. "He mentioned it once or twice, but really nothing more…then again, I never asked either. I need to get better at following up on questions." He scribbled a note for Gramps and set off down the hill, wondering what they should play first.

"Oh hello Naota! My, you're almost due for another haircut." Aunt Rita answered the door, clothed in a black dress with diamonds sparkling on her ears. As she opened the door, the four Carson family dogs, Gus, Bolt, Sam and Piddles: The Wonder Dog, shot out of the house like furry cannonballs. "George and I are going out, but Rig's downstairs, in his cave haha! Play as loud as you want, just don't break any windows."

"I can't make any guarantees Mrs. Carson." He compromised as he fended off the dogs, who were all too happy to see him. Rita directed him inside and left to a staircase that lead down and to the right. "But we'll do our best."

"That's all I ask for. Now, there's some snacks in the fridge, and some pop too, so stay out of the beer! Have fun!" She said her goodbye and after shooing the dogs outside, closed the door behind her. The sound of George's truck flared then fell away, leaving him at the top of the stairs in a silent house. He made his way downstairs to a full-sized basement, paneled in the exact same wood veneer as his own house. To his immediate right were two closed doors labeled "Tommy" and "Storage". Next was a bathroom and the house's laundry. The farther right wall was dominated by a stone fireplace. Past that was a small bar, but devoid of glasses or bottles. It was covered with the mechanical parts of some gadget, notepads, books, a TV and an Xbox. To his far front, on the opposite side, was a pair of sliding glass doors that opened to a concrete porch, underneath the wooden deck from the main floor. The doors were open to tempt in a breeze. Left of those was the last door, labeled "Jeff". Opposite the fireplace was a day-bed style couch, covered in magazines and reams of sheet music. But all of these things were not the most eye-pulling feature of the room.

It was the stereo, across the landing and left of the stairs. Well, perhaps stereo wasn't quite the right word to describe the monstrosity. It was an audiophile's wet dream, easily fifteen feet across and stretching from ceiling to floor. It was composed of every kind of mixer, playback and audio controller, equalizer, amp, speaker and media player available. All were connected by a network of cables only the original inventor could comprehend. It was a physical piece of musical art.

"Like that little set-up?" Rig appeared from his room with a guitar case in hand, quickly shutting his door behind him. "My Dad built that himself, some of the stuff he worked into it is just…other-worldly. Actually, to be honest, I'm not totally sure how the darn thing works…"

"Right…it's really cool and all, but what're those?" Naota was too distracted to examine the stereo further; after seeing Rig's face.

"These? They're called glasses man." Rig took off a pair of light-weight, gold framed glasses with aviator shaped lenses; spinning them by an earpiece. "What of 'em?"

"They are, real, right?" He was remembering Ninamori and her glasses; how she had insisted they were real one minute, then false the next. It would be a dark day indeed if he were to be fooled by the same trick.

"Of course, here." Rig held them out and Naota put them on. His vision instantly clouded as the glass distorted it. They were real alright. "Yeah, I'm near-sighted. Can see perfectly right in front of my face, stuff far out though, not so good. Gets all fuzzy."

"So why haven't I seen them until now?"

"I ran out of contacts yesterday, forgot to order more." He answered, taking his glasses back and settling them on his nose. "So out these come."

"Right, of course." He agreed, wishing he'd thought of contacts. "So what do you play, what's in the case?"

"My inheritance. Remember the guitar my Dad left me?" Rig uncased his guitar. It was a 1956 Gibson Les Paul Standard with a Bigsby tailpiece and whammy bar, decorated in a bottomless black and accented with stark, ice white. Across the body's face, near the top, was inlaid the words "Back-Breaker"; in bright ivory letters.

"You did a good job restoring it, it looks brand new. But, Back-Breaker? That's a, well, ominous name isn't it?"

"Well first, Tommy and George helped me a lot to fix it, but thanks all the same. And Back-Breaker? That's another thing I don't actually know, why Grandad named it that. But Dad didn't change the name, so I guess I won't either." Rig admitted, looking down at the guitar on his lap. "I never got a chance to ask Grandad, he had his accident when I was a few months old."

"Accident? I think you might have mentioned it before, if you don't mind me asking?"

"He was cutting the weeds and tall grass along the runway, at the edge of the mountain. We're not sure how, but he accidentally drove his tractor off the runway and it crushed him on the way down the hill." Rig answered flatly, gripping his guitar's neck until the wood creaked and his knuckles turned white. "I was only a few months old, so I can't tell you more."

"I'm sorry, that I made you bring it up." Naota really did feel bad for bringing up another of Rig's family accidents. In his own defense, he couldn't have known, but that didn't make him feel any better about upsetting his friend. "So, what can you play? Any personal preferences?" He asked, hoping to quickly change the subject.

"I'm not the _best_ picker, but I can play rhythm parts like a mofo." Rig bragged, setting his case on the couch and plugging into the stereo.

"Gotta start somewhere. What's first on the setlist?"

"Do you know…" Rig rolled his eyes around, rocking his head back and forth while he cast around his mind for songs. "Stranglehold?"

"Nope, I don't." Naota lied as a tease.

"Then get the hell outta this house!" Rig ordered, pointing to the doors, but broke down laughing. "Okay, but seriously, do you?"

"Yeah, yeah. I know a few Ted Nugent songs." Naota plugged in as well and they both tuned up, Rig also making some adjustments to the stereo.

"Ahhh…good ole' Crazy Uncle Ted…" Rig sighed, finished fiddling with the stereo. "Okay, you ready? Ah one, ah one, two, three…" Rig counted them off and he launched into the opening bars of Stranglehold.* Their combined sound and the first barrage of notes shoved against Naota's chest, causing him to sway in place as he maintained his balance. As they played the funky and strangely hypnotic song, he could hear the other parts as well: the crash of cymbals, snapping of snares, his own bass's rhythmic thumping, and the eerie, floating back-up. Rig was doing his best to play lead, occasionally fumbling over some of the trickier parts. But what was interesting to hear, was not Rig play, but sing.

"Yeah, sometimes you wanna get higher…and sometimes you gotta start low. Some people think they gonna die someday; I got news, yah never got to go…C'mon, c'mon up…c'mon, c'mon up…c'mon, c'mon up…c'mon, c'mon up. C'mon, c'mon, c'mon, c'mon baby…c'mon, c'mon, c'mon, c'mon up…c'mon, c'mon, c'mon, c'mon baby…C'mon, C'MON, C'MOONNNN!" With a voice normally accented by Central Pennsylvanian, traces of Drawl and Appalachia, Rig's medium-deep voice didn't normally sound adept for taking on the vocals of Derek St. Holmes and Ted Nugent. But he wasn't doing a half bad job. "Road I cruise is a bitch noowwww, you know you can't turn me 'round! And if a house gets in my waAAaaaAAyyy…you know I'll burn it down! You ran that night that you left meeee, you put me in my place! I got you in ah Stranglehold baby! That night I crushed your face!"

After the final crescendo, they stopped for a moment to let their fingers rest and Rig to catch his breath. But Naota wasn't content to play one song and sit around; he came to play, so play they would. He asked Rig if he knew Voodoo Child**, and was asked in return if the sky were blue. So Rig began the initially slow, seemingly meandering notes; a staggering wha-wha riff of apocalyptic blues. It felt soothing to play something so fluid and mellow, especially with someone else instead of his usual one-man concert. They flowed through the song, Rig doing his best to follow Jimi's psychedelic style and push out the lazily floating lyrics; all while Naota kept everything in order and on pace, solid and steady.

"Well I stand up next to ah mountain…and I chop it down, with the edge of my hand…well I stand up next to ah mountain! And I chop it down, with the edge of my hand…" Rig sang, head lolling from shoulder to shoulder, eyes cast down with complete focus on hitting all the right notes. "Well I, pick up all the pieces and make an island…might even, raise a little sand! Yeah! 'Cause I'm ah Voodoo Child! Lord knows, I'm ah Voodoo Child!"

"Got one more in you?" Naota asked as the last few bits of The Experience echoed around the basement.

"Uh-huh, that I do. It's actually one of the few songs I _can_ play well."

"What's that? It's not fuckin' Wonderwall is it?"

"Oh good Christ no." Rig appeared genuinely shocked. "And here I was, thinkin' you had me held in a higher standard. No, screw that, we're playin' Working Man***."

"Uhhh…I don't know that one." Now Rig looked almost beside himself, eyes popping behind his glasses in disbelief. "I mean, I've _heard it_ , just never played it. Rush, right?"

"Are you sure we're friends?" Rig shook his head, then leaned his guitar in the corner. "Here, you're lucky I'm such a nerd." Rig reached under the couch and pulled out a portable music stand, handing it to Naota to setup. He reached under the couch again and pulled out several shoe boxes filled with sheet music. After flipping through reams of paper, he found and plunked down on Naota's stand his part: Geddy Lee's instruction manual for bass guitar excellence. "You can read tabs right?"

"Better than English, I can say that much." Naota said, sight reading quickly over the notes. It seemed doable…maybe. "Let's give it a go."

Rig hadn't been lying, he could play Working Man well, and sing it too. He somehow strained his vocal chords to produce Geddy Lee's higher-pitched lyrics, telling the tale of blue collars everywhere.

"Well I get up, at seven yeah! And I go to work at nine. Got no time for livin', yes, I'm workin' allll the time. It seems to me I could live my life, a lot better than I think I am! I guess that's why they call me, they call me the Workin' Man!...They call me the Workin' Man…I guess that's what I am…" Naota followed along, strumming and plucking away, thoroughly enjoying the oft rumored of bass solo parts. There weren't too many songs that gave their bass player the stage for a bit, and he wasn't about to let the opportunity pass him by, especially at around the two minute mark. "They call me the Workin' Maaan! I guess that's what I am…"

The song finished at last, Rig collapsed on the couch, out of breath.

"Whooooo…that's a tough one, don'tcha think?" He sighed, fiddling his way through some of Alex Lifeson's notes.

"It is, Geddy Lee's one hell of a bass player if he can play this, and sing at the same time." Naota said, flipping through the other sheets of music on his stand.

"Don't forget he also played keyboard at the same time too." Rig added. "He had to use that big ole' nose of his to move the mic out of the way when he moved around, hand were full."

"Use what you're given. Speaking of singers, how come you never told me you could?"

"You never asked." Rig shrugged. "I'm not a good technical singer, but I can imitate voices pretty well. It's one of the few things I've found I'm naturally somewhat not shitty at, singing. But yeah, imitating voices has always been something I can do, here's a favorite. Rmmm….hemm-hemm!" He coughed deeply and cleared his throat. "'Ello there, the name's Brian Johnson an' Ah'm the singer of AC-DC." He growled in the heavy, gravely, northeastern English accent of AC-DC's front man.

"Now that's cool man!" Naota said, then asked something that had been on his mind the whole afternoon. "Hey, if you don't mind, could I take a look at your guitar?" He slipped his bass's strap off his shoulder, holding it out for Rig to take. Rig seemed to draw back, clutching the guitar close to his chest. After a few quiet seconds, Rig quickly slipped the strap off his shoulder and held it out.

"Quickly, 'fore I change my mind." Naota traded him and firmly took the black guitar for his blue one. For its age, it was well maintained, but some components were starting to show wear. The tailpiece also had a scarcely visible hairline crack in it, like someone had slammed the bottom of the guitar against something incredibly solid. The neck felt slightly thicker than what he would have thought normal; but having never held an LP Standard, passed it off as just part of the older design. He turned it over carefully and wondered about its density; it was quite heavy. Nothing odd struck him about the LP, no N.O. generator motor was on the back for starters. Well, there was that small hinge where the neck joined the body, and that was something interesting…

"What in the blazes hell are these?" Rig interrupted, pointing at the Rickenbacker's headstock and the two recessed barrels hidden in it. "You wanna talk 'bout holdin' out? You never told me you owned a bass that shoots beats and _bullets_!"

"Oh yeahhh…that." Naota sheepishly grinned, his poorly guarded secret out. "Remember that alien woman I told you about, Haruko? This bass was originally hers. Before she left Earth, she took that Flying-V and EB-0 combo, leaving me this one. I guess she decided it couldn't help her anymore, so she abandoned it." He walked over to point out the bass's finer points. "This lever here is the trigger and round selector, I think. This barrel fires shotgun rounds, and this one some sort of explosive; like little grenades or something."

"You sure do know a lot about it…" Rig said, aiming the bass out the open sliding doors like his 760 rifle. "Then again, you've had it for four years…"

"And I found out the hard way about how it works. That pull-cord motor next to your cheek? It generates N.O. channels like the one in my head."

"No shit? Does it really?" Rig asked, moving the bass's body away from his face to take a better look at the orange motor. "And the shotgun, grenade launcher?"

"Funny story that." Naota laughed in hindsight at his foolishness; messing around with an unfamiliar firearm. "So, a few weeks after Haruko left, I was messing with it in my room…and accidentally pulled the trigger; I didn't know it was loaded. It was set to an explosive round and blew a two-foot wide hole in my bedroom wall, took out the neighbor's satellite dish too. Scared the hell out of both of us as well."

"I'd 'magine so, sleepy little town like Mabase…" Rig agreed, holding up the bass again. "So how's it work?"

"Just pull that little lever out." Naota pointed and Rig moved the trigger with a small click.

"'Kay, then what?"

"It's a two-stage trigger. First click will arm it." _Cl…Click._ "And the second will…wait, what're you doing?" _BAH-BOOOOM!_ Rig fired an explosive round into his backyard, filling the basement with blinding muzzle flash, a haze of dust shaken from the ceiling and a buzzing, ringing whine in their ears. Rig's target, a three foot wide boulder at the edge of the woods, had been blasted to a scattered flurry of shattered bits. "Goddammit. Do you have _any_ common sense or self-preservation? What if the round had blown up in the guitar?"

"Foooo…" Rig ignored him, tilted the muzzle towards himself and blew off the smoke lingering in the larger barrel's muzzle. "Now THAT, is pretty damn cool."

"…I guess it was. Hey, do you think we could…?"

"Go blow shit up with it? I was wondering when you'd ask me! Let's go!"

. . .

It was rather impromptu, but Naota got some range time shooting his bass. It was also a check for me to make sure the darn thing was still working and in good operation. If things went sideways and all else failed, it would be his very last line of defense; and it wouldn't do to have it fall apart. I had been meaning to bring up his bass and its capabilities, but couldn't figure out how to start the conversation. 'Hey Naota, buddy, pal. Know that GSPB custom-made Rickenbacker 4001, killing machine you've got chillin' in your room? Yeah, the one that smashes in M-M robot heads like a sledgehammer versus an egg? How 'bout you and me take it out back and shoot up an old HVAC unit with it? Sound like fun?' Yeah, YOU go ahead and give that a try and not get your cover blown. Funniest thing about it all though, was that he was a better shot with it than any of my guns. Thank. Goodness.

. . .

"Mmmm-hmmm, yeah, yeah! One…two…three…Holy Diver! You've been down too long in the Midnight Sea! Ohhhh, what's becoming of meeee?! Ride the Tiger! You can see his stripes, but you know he's clean. Oh, don't you see what I mean? Gotta get away…Holy Divvveeerrr! Yeah!" Haruko sang, strumming on the Flying-V half of the double-necked guitar she'd stolen…AHEM! Oops, sorry. The double-necked guitar she'd _borrowed_ , from Naota. That didn't bother her though as her headphones thumped into her ears and her fingers slid across the V's strings. Earth's coordinates were already plugged into her Vespa, it was practically driving itself. All she had to do was kick her feet up on the handlebars, plug in, and tune out.

"Shiny diamonds! Like the eyes of a cat in the black and blue! Something's coming for you! Look out!" It had been four hard, crushing years of setbacks, false trails and empty stomachs, but she'd finally gotten a solid lead on Atomsk. He'd gone back to hide on Earth of all places, what a strange choice she thought. The disappearing act he'd pulled a month earlier had been a cute trick, she had to admit. But it was hardly anything that would do more than slow _her_ down. After all, she'd found him on Earth the last time and nearly had him then. Why would this time be any different? Especially since she had his bass, the Gibson EB-0, _borrowed,_ as it was, and that fact itself was certainly a leg-up…not like she needed it, of course. If it hadn't been for Naota getting in the way, she'd be sitting pretty and there would be a Pirate Queen; rampaging however she pleased across the Universe. Yeah…that'll be all kinds of freakin' awesome…anyway, getting back to the point…

As she hurtled past Saturn, one of the millions of rocks in its rings pinged. It had detected the Vespa's power output and recognized its signature. The rock was a camouflaged satellite, stationed by Earth's Overwatch Command to serve as an early warning and listening post. The signal it sent Earthward would reach its destination on about an hour, well ahead of Haruko. The signal would be picked up, decrypted and sent to the various Overwatch stations spread out across the planet. It would also be intercepted by another satellite, hidden in the chaos of Mar's asteroid belt. That second satellite would sent its signal far and away, reaching Medical Mechanica's receiver a few days later. But Haruko couldn't have known about either satellite, and if she did, certainly wouldn't have given a single damn; she was a woman on a mission with the power of the Universe, just coming into reach.

"Ride the Tiger! You can see his stripes, but you know he's clean! Oh, don't you see what I meeeann?! Gotta get away! Get away! Gotta get away! Get awaaaayyy yeah! Holy Diver!"****

. . .

* * *

Songs:

*Stranglehold - Ted Nugent

**Voodoo Child (Slight Return) - The Jimi Hendrix Experience

***Working Man - Rush

****Holy Diver - Ronnie James Dio

So what'd you think of that? I know it was long, I know there wasn't all that much action, but this stuff is important and I promise it'll alllll be relevant later; trust me. We also now have Haruko coming back into the fold, and I'm really looking forward to her arriving planetside. Also, any thoughts on Medical Mechanica and how I've presented them so far? Let me know how I'm doing, especially since up to this point, everything has been a re-write. Thank you again for reading, please leave a review as a tip, and come again!


	4. Chapter 4

Do you know what time it is? It's the best time of the day next to Beer:30, it's time for FLCL! I have really been meaning to get chapters out on a more frequent basis, but since I'm not in college anymore, I can't write during class when I'm supposed to be paying attention, or during the bus ride between campuses, or the vacations they gave us. I actually gotta go to work. But I suppose that makes doing this all that more precious, and hopefully that will show in this and future chapters; enjoy.

* * *

. . .

Have you ever noticed, whenever someone starts with 'It was just like any other day until…' then fill in the blank, it always turns out to be nothing like an ordinary day? For me, that day started off _unlike_ any other day, and proceeded to go downhill from there. The first troubling event came in the form of an encrypted message; straight from Earth's Overwatch command post in D.C.

"What's it say?" George asked as the computer on my desk chugged along, sifting through the millions of junk files to find the _actual_ message we'd been sent. With Medical Mechanica's attempts to peek into our networks, us being the GG, the GSPB, IIB and Overwatch, our cyber security had been given a serious shot in the arm. And, because I pestered the right people, I have an inkling on how it works.

So, encryption, at its core, is actually pretty simple. The sender creates a message, scrambles it, then the receiver unscrambles it and reads. It gets…a little more complicated from here on out. Programs to scramble/encrypt and unscramble/decrypt messages are called Keys. There are two types, Private and Public. One system that uses these Keys is called Symmetric, which is like you and a friend having a pair of those doo-dad rings you get outta Cracker Jack boxes. He uses his ring to make a message, and you use yours to read it; this's doable because you both have the same ring. BUT…if someone else gets the same ring, or steals one of yours and copies down the cipher, your system is screwed.

The system we use is called Private-Public Key, or at least a variation. Overwatch stations have a Private Key that's unique to us. It's on our computer, and our computer only, it doesn't exist anywhere else in the universe. Now, when a message is sent, the sender will use a Public Key. Wait, is this making any sense? Okay, think of it as…a box, within a box. A Public Key unlocks the first lid and allows you to drop in a message through a slot in the second box's lid. But, a Public Key cannot open the second box and actually read the message. Make sense? Sure, why not you say. Alrighty, movin' on. This means you can't figure out the Private Key with just the Public Key; even if you stare at it 'till your brain turns to mush.

Now, you're prob'bly gonna ask 'But, but Rig! But Rig! If _you_ send something back to the Public Key, couldn't someone read that message?' Yes, they can. Have no fear though, we've thought of that. We only send one of two messages. One: Yes, we understand. Two: No, we do not understand. Good luck figgerin' out what we're talkin' about based on that! So the info I send isn't secure, but at least command knows for sure it's me and not some impostor.

All of this is done via a hashing algorithm, to create a hash value. _Everyone_ who's _someone_ knows algorithms are just instructions a computer follows to do a task…right? No? Well, sorry…and hey, now you know. Anyway, the algorithm takes a pre-agreed upon number, just one of infinite possibilities. It could be anything from zero, to literal infinity. Both the public and private key know it, kinda like a password. Then, the algorithm multiplies that number by _another_ infinitely variable number; again zero to infinity. Simple right? Well, computers are good at lots of things, but really, really, _really_ bad at guessin' at the factors of an infinitely huge number. A number that is two hundred and fifty six bits in length. That means a computer would have to go through two hundred and fifty six numbers, trying to figure out each one, one at a time; finding all the prime numbers that could make this one singular product. That would take _millions_ of years to run it all. Well, unless you've got a quantum computer, and how many of those are just lyin' around? I mean, last time we checked, M-M didn't have one…but that doesn't mean they aren't trying, bless their little hearts. Then, after ALLLLL of that, that number is used to unlock and decrypt the message. However…

Yes, there's a however. However, in order to better screw with hackers, our encryption program itself, is encrypted; a key is needed to unlock the key, so to speak. The first round tells us which encryption key to use (out of an infinite selection) for figuring out the second one. Why? More secure of course, but it's also extremely satisfying to imagine a team of M-M tech-weenies ripping their hair out and gnashing their teeth while their heads build enough pressure to explode out of sheer frustration; Scanners style. Ahhh…always makes me smile. Anyway, got a little side-tracked, where was I? Uh, line?

(You were waiting for the computer to finish the decryption process…)

Ah. Thank you.

"It says…" I scanned the first few lines; seeing IMMEDIATE at the very top. That meant was of utmost importance. "Oh lord. She's just passed Saturn."

"She?" Tommy asked, sliding over on his chair to read as well. "Ohhhh…that one. When was this sent?" He checked the time stamp in the heading. "Huh, by now, she'll be reaching Jupiter…" Finished reading, he rolled his chair back to his deck, quietly singing "Now that she's back in the atmosphere, with drops of Jupiter in her hair…"

"I had a feeling Haruko Haruhara would be making an appearance, sooner or later." George said, twisting his ring 'round and 'round his finger. "When we first got our orders, I called up the head of the GSPB's cadet academy; old friend of mine. He remembered her, quite well."

"What'd he have to say?" I was still reading the rest of the message. Standard stuff really. A satellite has identified an enemy agent's vehicle signature, current tracking indicates an Earthbound trajectory, agent is a known threat, armed, dangerous and mentally unstable. Do not approach or attempt to apprehend, call for backup and maintain your distance. Nothin' outta the ordinary.

"That she was one of his most, ah, passionate, cadets; especially where Atomsk was concerned. She requested his pursuit as her first assignment, and second, and third, fourth…"

"So she's obsessed on a stalker level, got it." I recalled The Mabase Incident. She had been willing to sacrifice Earth to M-M for just a _chance_ of getting a fight with Atomsk; it wouldn't have been a sure thing that she would even win. Unstable doesn't begin to cover it. "Do you think she's headed here, here?"

"We know she's headed here, here, Rig." Tommy said. "There's literally nothing else on this entire planet that could draw her in; least nothin' I can think of."

"What about N…nevermind. Okay, George, Tom, I'm trying to remember this section of the how-to manual…advice?" Since Haruko was tied to The Mabase Incident, she was thus tied to Naota, and that meant she was my problem to solve.

"Hmmm…" George and Tommy both slipped into thought, fiddling with their own N.O. detectors. "I really don't know Rig." Tommy admitted first. "We've never, at least the two of us, have never quite had a situation like this one. At least that I know of…George?"

"I'm drawing a blank too." George looked back at the message. "I will say this much, our best bet is to follow our orders; that's the easiest path."

"They forgot to add something." Tommy said as he made ready to leave. He had a full day ahead of him setting roof trusses with one of our mobile cranes, while recruiting for our network's southern section. "To keep her away from Naota. The last thing we need is for her to start throwin' monkey wrenches into everything we've, and you Rig, have done. That's what she does, stirs shit up. Mark my words, if she shows up here, she'll be nothing but trouble." Tommy made his prediction and it made me shiver; remember how I said he was a fortune teller?

"Very put Tom, and all too true as well." George agreed. "So Rig, when you're out and about, don't go off and try to handle her yourself. You don't have anything to prove; am I clear?"

"Crystal, George." I shut down the computer, making sure to close the encryption programs; rescrambling them. We also have an emergency shutdown program that'll…well, let's just say you don't wanna be within ten yards of the computer when it's done. "Don't be a hero, let it be someone else's problem."

"See y'all later, have fun playin' errand boy Rig!" Tommy waved goodbye before disappearing outside. He and our red mobile crane, nicknamed "Clifford" for its size, rumbled by, bound for Harrisburg. After saying my own good day to George, I walked outside to see Naota showing up for work; to him, another ordinary day. I wondered for a moment if I should tell him, warn him of what was headed his way; forgetting for a moment to consider _how_ I could even begin to do that. But orders were orders, and errands were errands.

"Mornin' Rig!" He smiled, ready and willing to get right to work. "What's new with you?"

"The same to you! And nothin's really new." I lied with a straight face and winning grin. "Today's just like any other day…"

. . .

"Sir, the latest from the Intelligence Office." The Aide had trepidly entered The Head's office, disobeying orders not to disturb his boss. "I know you wished to be left alone, but this is of utmost importance."

"I would certainly hope so." The Head did not turn around in his chair, nor look up from his book. "Please be brief."

"A satellite, stationed near Earth in the Mars asteroid belt, intercepted a transmission from an Overwatch satellite. We are still unable to completely break Overwatch's encryption, but what we can read, it would appear that Haruko Haruhara is on course to Earth." The Head's hand stopped mid-turn of a page.

"How sure are we of this?"

"As of now, we can only read a quarter of the message, but it's our best lead yet."

"Very well, thank you for the update." The Head slowly resumed turning the page in his book and began the next page, still facing away from his assistant. "Is that all?"

"Oh, yes sir. Have you any tasks for me?"

"No, you are dismissed for the evening. I will expect you tomorrow morning as usual, before the daily brief." With his dismissal, The Aide closed The Head's office door and took his leave. The Head waited until he heard the door latch in place, then waited five minutes more. His countdown complete, his swiveled round in his chair and laid down his personal copy of "The Seven Pillars of Wisdom", by T.E. Lawrence; bookmarking the passages concerning the author's fights against the Turkish and the related tactics of guerrilla warfare. He took out a pen and sheet of paper from his desk, then jotted down an order. Finished, he paged the Intelligence Office, tasking them to send a Courier. Within a minute of him pushing the button, there was a knock at his door.

"Message for direct transmission, Receiver's eyes only, Immediate Status." He placed the once folded piece of paper into the Courier's open and waiting attache case; securely handcuffed to the Courier's wrist. With the message secure, the Courier snapped the case closed, the internals of the locking mechanism whirring as they reset. Now the only thing that could get the case open was the key in the Intelligence Office, or an act of God.

Medical Mechanica knew there were spies, agents of espionage, moles and saboteurs, in their ranks. They hadn't gotten to where they were without making some enemies; breaking a few eggs to make an omelet and all that. Not wanting to be rotted from within, Medical Mechanica had revamped their security; especially where communications was concerned. They quickly realized that any means of electronic communication could be intercepted and compromised, encryption Keys cracked or stolen. Spoken word could be recorded via bugs, taps or even brave eavesdroppers. The only secure method of communication was a message written on a piece of paper, read by no one except the author and intended recipient, and promptly destroyed after transmittal. Medical Mechanica's system was based entirely on this.

A Courier would collect an attache case from the Intelligence Office, secure the shackle to his right wrist and use his thumbprint to open and inspect the case, looking for defects or enemy devices. The computer on board had a set of instructions it followed, the first would be to lock once closed again, and second, to start a timer set by the Courier. The case would remain locked until the timer ran out. By then, the Courier would have reached his destination and use his thumb again to open it for the sender to inspect the case and place their message; written on a standard size paper, folded once in half. The next closing would arm a built-in bomb that would go off if the case was forced open. It would not necessarily kill any interceptor, but would destroy the message.

The Courier would report back to the Intelligence Office and present his case, still attached via handcuff, to a machine's slot. This massive machine, built into the wall, contained a bank of tens of thousands of keys, each unique to a unique case. In each case at the latch, was a tube the machine would draw out and read a code inscribed in a microstamp at the very bottom; invisible to the eye. You would only know it was there if you knew to look for it; and the builder of the machine kept their mouth shut. Once the code was read, the proper key would be selected and inserted into a slot in the tube. The tube would be returned to the case, then turned, unlocking the case. This system ensured determining which key to use practically impossible and, since the tube had to be in place to turn the key, picking the lock with any tool, was also impossible to do. During this entire time, until the key turned, the explosive was still active and any attempt to forcibly remove the case would result in detonation.

Lastly, with the case open, a set of claws would unfold the message, then remove it from the case. A scanner would transcribe the message into an encrypted code, also entering the destination and recipient into the computer; written down by the sender. This way, no one could know where the message was being sent or who was sending it. A temporary set of files, millions fake and one real, would be created and the Courier would be prompted for his personal code. The computer would have gotten the Courier's identification from the case's computer, and would terminate the entire process if a wrong number was entered. The Courier would enter his pin, chosen by and only known to him. Then, the message would be uploaded via hardline to the satellite and fired to its destination. Once the message had been sent, any data the computer had related to it from the entire process, was permanently deleted. The satellite's broadcast was the weakest link in the chain, but unavoidable. Completed with his mission, the Courier would insert his hand into the machine so the handcuff could be unlocked. The case would be sent via the machine back to the Intelligence Office's quartermaster. Meanwhile, the message would be released from the scanner into a shaft that lead straight to the building's incinerator. A complex system? Yes. Burdensome? Perhaps. But, since its inception, not a single Medical Mechanica transmission had been compromised, and they weren't about to willing allow that trend to reverse; not with so much at stake.

. . .

"What the hell is that?!" Naota jumped as my Bronco's radio chirped out the high-pitched buzzing of the Civil Alert System. "Is that the, Doomsday Alarm here; like if the Russians fire their nukes or something?!"

"It's the Civil Alert System, they could give the message that Russia's fired at us, but it's always just a test." I explained while waiting for the light to change. It had been a few days since we had received word Haruko was on her way. So far, she had yet to show up, and I was keeping my fingers crossed, rabbit's foot nearby and picking every four leaf clover I could find in hopes that she never would. "They use it for bad weather and the nuke plant, not nuclear missiles; nothin' to really worry about."

"We should probably listen anyway." He said, and had a good point. I turned up the volume to make sure I could hear every word.

"Attention. The following message is being transmitted at the request of the National Aeronautics and Space Administration. A sizable meteorite is expected to impact the state of Pennsylvania within the hour. Estimates are that it will impact somewhere in the central region of Pennsylvania. This is an extremely dangerous and life threatening situation. Due to the very uncertain nature of this event, residents in the counties of Clearfield and Centre are advised to take the following actions. Follow the advice of local authorities on where to evacuate. Anyone in the affected areas is advised to be prepared for an earthquake. Impact on landing will cause an earthquake, which may be very strong in magnitude. After impact, follow the instructions of local authorities on any actions that may be required in your specific area. Stay tuned to media outlets for updates on this life-threatening situation. _BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!_ " And once the last beep faded out, the radio went right back to Chubby Checker and Twistin' Again without missin' a beat.

"Soooo…now what?" Naota looked over at me, moon-eyed. "Do we find a shaft coal mine to hid in and wait for it to be over?"

"Pshhh…you've been visitin' too many of them apocalypse theory websites, haven't you?" I was ready to dismiss the broadcast as an anomaly, something that was out of my hands and not worth worrying about. Then Tommy came in over the CB.

"Rig, Naota! One of you two pick up!" He damn near hollered through the CB.

"Hey Tom, what's with the raised volume; the Russians invade or somethin'?" I tried to cover my growing unease, something had Tommy spooked.

"The meteorite, on the Civil Alert System? Are you deaf?" He obviously knew something I didn't, or he wouldn't have sounded so nervous. "The broadcast said it was headed for our neck of the woods."

"That it did." Stopped at another red light, Naota and I leaned out our windows, along with everyone else at the intersection, to scan the sky. "I don't see anything…have you heard from George or any of the guys at the shop?"

"Not yet, I'm sure you will soon though." And, Tommy's black magic proved true again as my phone started ringing. I worked it free of my pocket and, guess who? "I'll buzz you back Tom, gotta talk to George." I replaced the CB mike and pressed my phone's TALK. "You have reached Jeff Carson's phone, how might I direct your call?"

"You can direct it straight back home!" Okay, it's great to hear from you too George. Why yes, in fact my day is going just swimmingly, so kind and thoughtful of you to ask…sheesh.

"Oooookay…and what's the rush?"

"I just got off the phone with Griggs. That meteorite isn't what everyone thinks it is." We have to be careful with what we say over the phone, Big Brother's always listening. But I immediately caught the gist of what George was implying and felt like a bowlin' ball had dropped into my stomach. "And it looks like it'll be hitting very close to home."

"So what do you want me to do about it? I don't have a cannon to blow it outta the sky with." Mental note: Put that on my Christmas list before I forget.

"Just…just be there. Be there when it lands, you're the only one close enough. Tommy's on the wrong side of Clearfield with Josh right now, I'm stuck out in the Boonies with a broken tie-rod, and Canti, Johnny and Mike need to be minding, the shop." Minding, guarding, same difference.

"Okay, okay. Observe and report, understood." I acknowledged. "Anything else?"

"Don't do anything foolish." George cautioned. "Wait for Tom or I to get there first. If that isn't an option, well, use that noggin' of yours for more than a hat-rack."

"Rog'. See you on the other side." I hung up just as the light changed.

"What was that all about?" Naota asked as I approached the intersection, waiting to get out of the block of cars I was stuck in. "Sounded like the meteorite's headed a lot closer to us than I'd like it to."

"It is, and we're gonna go find it when it lands!" I broke free of traffic, made an illegal u-turn, got honked at, shifted to third, flipped them the bird and began the sprint for home. As I did, Beau put a fresh song out on his Beats Buffet; perfectly fitting for that day. Amazin' how he does that, ain't it?

. . .

 _Well, it came out of the sky, landed just a little south of Moline…_

 _Jody fell out of his tractor, couldn' b'lieve what he seen._

 _Laid on the ground, shook an' fearin' for his life!_

 _Then he ran all the way to town, screamin' 'It came out of the sky!'_

It was all Naota could do to stay in his seat as Rig hurtled them home, racking up almost every moving violation Pennsylvania had to offer.

"Hey, slow down a little!" He begged as the Bronco caught air, ramping off an angled railroad crossing. "We haven't even seen the damn thing! It could be…" Naota trailed off as he found his vision dragged past Rig and out the driver side window. A black object, leaving a dirty, smoking streak across a cloudless sky, was barreling Earthward. Its course was parallel to theirs and headed dead-on for Osceola Mills. "Ohhh…kay. I stand corrected. I hope it doesn't land on anyone."

"You an' me both buddy." Rig agreed, tapping his tobacco tin and repacking his lip, running another red light in the process. "So whaddyah think it is?" He nodded at the burning object, inching ever closer to impact.

"A…rock? I dunno, your guess's good as mine." He shrugged, leaning forward to better track the meteorite. It appeared that they were actually going to beat, whatever it was, to its crash site; but it would only be by a matter of seconds at best.

"Maybe…or, or…it could be an alien?" Rig glanced over at Naota, that strange Carson sheen blazing furiously in his eyes. "Just 'magine the possibilities. Maybe it's that old friend of yours, what's-her-face?"

"That's not funny. Don't even joke about that." Naota ordered.

"Tch! No sense of humor…" Rig chuckled, shaking his head and shifting to overdrive.

 _Well a crowd gathered 'round and a scientist said it was marsh gas…_

 _Spiro came and made a speech 'bout raisin' the Mars Tax…_

 _The Vatican said "Woe, the Lord has come!"_

 _Hollywood rushed out an epic film, and Ronnie the Popular said it was a Communist Plot!_

They made it back to G&R central with time to spare, more or less, in one piece; and through a miracle, no police chasing them. Rig didn't leave off the gas by even a hair, but instead skidded through the shop's gravel lot in a hard left, then doubled down on the throttle, showering the front of the shop with pebbles and dust; all the while the Bronco's radio antennae bounced to and fro like Pluto's tail. The Boneyard whipped by in a rusty blur as they headed for the runway. The meteorite was coming out of the east, perfectly lined up for landing.

"Man alive! Lookee there, here she come, here she come!" Rig slammed on the brake, bringing the Bronco to a shale-crunching halt. "This'll be ah good-un, just you wait!"

"Aren't we a little close?" Naota wondered aloud, the meteorite looming ever closer. With its current flight path, it would pass right over their heads, by how much he had no idea but it would still be too close. But now that he had a better look, the meteorite was actually much smaller than he'd originally thought. Most of its perceived size was attributed to the fire at its front, the friction of coming into the atmosphere at such drastic speed, and the inky trail of smoke it left behind. And now that he seriously studied it, the object had an ominously familiar shape.

 _Oh the newspapers came and made Jody a national hero..._

 _Walter and Eric said they'd put him on a network T.V. show..._

 _The White House said, "Put the thing in the Blue Room."_

 _The Vatican said, "Boy, it belongs in Rome."_

 _And Jody said, "It's mine, but you can have it for seventeen million!"_

With a thunderous, roaring howl, the meteorite passed over, shaking the Bronco with its whirlwind.

"I know they say cool guys never watch explosions, but…" Rig interrupted their self-imposed silence. "If my math's right, this'll be a huge one!" He exclaimed, holding up his pocket notebook, covered in hasty scribbles.

"What's all that? Are you doing math, now?!"

"Simple math that is, for figgerin' out impact crater size. Projectile's 'bout two-ish meters 'cross, prob'bly weighs 'round three hundred pounds, so with a volume of roughly four meters cubed, comin' at a speed of…"

"Skip ahead a bit please."

"We outta get a crater about sixty feet across." He predicted with a confidence filled smile.

"Well shut up and watch 'cause it's…HOLY SHIT!" Half a mile down the runway, an explosion kicked up a cloud of dirt and rock, the echoing _BOOOOooooommmmm!_ Caught up a split second later, shaking the truck again. Without waiting for the dust to settle or rocks to stop falling, Rig put the Bronco in gear and rushed forward through a haze of brown and grey. They stopped just shy of the crater's edge, a smoldering, gaping gash in the ground; much larger than Rig's estimated sixty feet.

"Looks like your math was a little off. That's sixty yards, not sixty feet."

"Huh. Must've figgered the density wrong." Rig spat tobacco, both of them standing at the rim with their thumbs hooked into their belts, trying to see anything in the fog of dust; all while the Bronco's radio still played in the background.

 _Ooohhh, it came out of the sky, just ah little south of Moline!_

 _Jody fell out of his tractor, couldn' b'lieve what he'd seen._

 _Laid on the ground, ah shakin' an' fearin' for his life!_

 _Then he ran all the way to town, screamin' "It came out of the sky!"*_

. . .

Now you're prob'bly thinkin', 'Hey Rig. Uhmmm…why in the hell are you going to investigate the crash site of a potential rogue agent…with Naota in tow? Seems a little counterproductive, if you ask me.'

Don't worry 'bout it none, I'm _very_ good at pretending to know what I'm doing. In all seriousness though, I didn't spend the past month and a half teachin' the guy how to play Cat's Cradle. He would be fine, provided with a running head start of course. I also had my everyday carry GP100 strapped to my belt and hidden under my shirt. I prayed every time I put that gun on I would never have to use it.

"Looks safe enough, for government work anyway." I started down, sliding over shards of loose shale. "Let's see what we can find, if anything. You know, before the cops show up and quarantine the place."

"Sounds like a plan, right behind you." The crater wasn't a perfect bowl and it was relatively shallow. Because of the angle it had been formed at, most of the dirt was piled up on the opposite side. Halfway in we started hearing signs of life. Careful now Rig, carefully towards the Unknown you go…

. . .

First, there was a long, drawn out, wailing groan. There was no mistaking it, something that organic sounding. Next Naota heard a frantic scrabbling, pieces of shale clacking together as someone, or something, ahead of them desperately searched for some precious item.

"Shit! Shit! Shitshitshitshitshitshit! Damn it where is, ouch! Shit that hurts! Where is it?! Where is it?! It's gotta be here somewhere! Not now, not now of all times! Where is it?! DAMNNN IT!"

"Hello?!" Rig called, scanning side to side for the source of the voice. "Who's out there, can you hear me? Are you okay?"

"Does it sound like I'm okay?!" A figure, on their hands and knees, began to take shape. The more the newcomer spoke, the more irritatingly familiar their voice sounded. Why did it feel this known on his ears, and why did it send a prickle up his neck, standing his hair on edge? "Quit standing around like a pair of Bumpkins and help me look!"

Now, with the distance closed and dust settling, Rig and Naota could clearly see Earth's newest visitor. A woman in her early twenties, bubblegum pink hair getting in her bright yellow eyes as she dug with frayed leather gloved hands around a blackened and broken Vespa. Pieces of it were scattered across the crater's bottom, but most of it, charred black as the inside of a coal stove, was half-buried in the dirt. Most prominent was the guitar slung across the woman's back, a double-necked fusion of a Gibson Flying-V and EB-0. Realizing how close he and Rig had gotten, the woman stopped searching and stood, giving Naota a puzzled stare; like she was wracking her brain to recognize him and who he was.

"Naota? Is that really you?" She almost whispered, like she was afraid of the answer.

"Ye…" His mouth had gone bone dry breathing in all the dust and his voice cracked. After wetting it, he spoke clearly. "Yes Haruko, it's me."

. . .

Remember earlier when I said 'things started out bad and went downhill from there'? Well, we were nearing the bottom of the hill with Haruko's crash-landing. We had hoped she would land somewhere far and away; like Borneo or The Land of the Lost Xanadu, and go bother the people there. It certainly would've made my life easier. But there she was, Vespa, guitar, N.O. bracelet and all. My orders were to _NOT_ approach her, yet found myself within arm's reach of her; easy pistol range. That was no comfort.

'Think, think, think! Think you stupid moron!' I screamed inside my useless head, feeling slight panic taking root. My brain chose that exact moment to remember the details of The Mabase Incident, how Haruko had decimated, single-handedly, Amaro's strike team, shot up a New York sized city block in the process, fuckin' _flew_ around on that Rickenbacker bass like a psychopathic Tinker Bell (and in a Playboy Bunny suit no less) and then went toe-to-toe with a Naota that had absorbed Atomsk's power…thanks a whole lot brain.

'Okay, okay. Settle, think.' I forced my mind into order, watching Naota and Haruko make eyes at each other. The events of Mabase kept bubbling up, and I had to take great care to not let my hand wander to my revolver. But, despite my fear's best efforts, an idea came to me. It was sure to get me in trouble, but it was worth a try at least. Now, time to put on my bravest face, and welcome Earth's latest visitor.

. . .

"Well don' just stand there! Introduce us Naota!" Rig broke in, elbowing Naota out of a daze. "You two seem to know each other?"

"Oh, oh right. Rig, this's Haruko Haruhara, formerly of the Galactic Space Patrol Brotherhood, and the maker of my N.O. portal. Remember her now?"

"Uh-huh. I do recall a story or two you may've mentioned." Rig said, sucking up and spitting out a large dallop of tobacco juice; charming as always.

"And Haruko, this's Jeff, Rig, Carson. He's my supervisor at work and my neighbor."

"Haruko, pleasure." Haruko said, holding out her hand, steady and level.

"All mine, I'm sure." Rig smiled and shook her hand, then quickly withdrew it before she could see its slight tremor. That didn't escape Naota. He had known his friend long enough to know when Rig was nervous; which wasn't often. To be fair, he had not painted the rosiest of portraits for Rig when he talked about Haruko…and she had just smashed a sixty yard wide crater in his family's runway and seemed relatively unscathed…those might be contributing factors. He couldn't think about it too much though, more important things were at hand.

"So what're you doing back here?" He asked, planting his boots in a wide, aggressive stance and crossing his arms. "Didn't cause enough trouble last time so you're back to finish the job?"

"Uhmmm…" Haruko put her hand to her chin and leaned to the side, as if she were actually giving his question serious thought. "Yep! That's about right! So if you could help me find the Gundam module for my bike, I'd be most thankful; I'm kinda in a bit of a rush. You can start looking over there."

"You've got some nerve, you know that?!" She hadn't been on the planet a full five minutes and was already trying to boss them around. "Like we'd help you, not after what happened four years ago! Right Rig?! Rig?! Uh…Rig? Where the hell…" Naota turned around, expecting Rig to be right behind him to back him up. The Pennsylvanian had vanished.

"Over here!" Rig called out from behind Haruko. He was squatted on his haunches next to the Vespa, staring at the engine. "Mizz…Haruko, right? Mizz Haruko, I ain't seen an engine quite like this'n here; an' I've seen quite a few."

"Well it's like yours truly, one of a kind." Haruko sauntered over to Rig, ignoring Naota, and crouched next to Rig. "What about you, wanna help me look for my Gundam module? I'm sure you could find it no problem, maybe even help me fix my bike?" Naota knew this trick a mile away. She was sweet talking Rig, roping him into helping her. And, at the same time, was getting under Naota's skin.

"It'd be a little plastic-y, robot-lookin' thing, wouldn' it?" Rig asked, fiddling with something on the engine.

"Yes! Exactly, how'd you…oh."

"Found it over at the edge of the crater." Rig handed over the snapped in half and slightly melted Gundam toy, the part that made Haruko's Vespa what it was. Now, with it broken… "Hey, what's this doo-hickey here?"

"No don't touch that!" Haruko warned a moment too late. _BAH-WHOOOOOFFF!_ A small fireball erupted from the Vespa's exhaust, shoving Haruko sideways and throwing Rig ten feet back; eliciting a string of curses from both.

"Sunova bitch woman! What in tha blazes hell bumblefuck was that?!" Rig staggered to his feet, shirt and hair singed and hat askew.

"You dumb inbred hick! What were you thinking?! That was the emergency afterburner you jackass!" Haruko nearly screamed back, fists balled in rage. "You just blew the last of my fuel, you retarded redneck!"

"Well s'cuse me for tryin' to help!" Rig half-apologized, saying the words but completely lacking sincerity. He busied himself with resetting his hat on his head and wiping the Vespa's exhaust soot from his face.

"Grrrr…why I outta…" With her face going from pink, to crimson, to scarlet, to fire engine hopping mad red, Naota decided it was time to step in.

"Hey, he said he was sorry, let it go." He stood between Rig and Haruko, and was pleasantly surprised to find he was a hair taller than her now; not to mention stronger built after a month and a half of working out. The reversal flooded him with confidence, and just a tad bit of cockiness. "Now, if you ask _nicely_ , I'm sure we could help you bring your bike to the shop and we can all take a look at it."

"Wow, look at you Naota, acting all grown up. What happened to that sweet, little boy I once knew?" She asked with a simpering smile and batted eyelashes.

"He doesn't work here anymore; do you want help or not?" He asked, not about to be pulled in by that pair of big, sad, yellow eyes.

"…Fine." The smile disappeared in a blink to be replaced with a scowl. "Would you, _be so kind,_ as to assist me? Happy now?"

"It's a start. Hey Rig, do you still have that logging chain in the truck?"

"I'll get it, be right back." Rig started back up the crater, muttering to himself. "Of course you can use _my_ truck to pull _your_ bike out…of course, you can use _my family's_ shop to fix it…right after you fix this ding-danged, asteroid-sized, goddamn crater _you_ made in _my family's_ runway…"

"Did you say something?" Haruko asked, no doubt hearing every grumbled word.

"NO!" Rig shot back before disappearing over the crater's edge. With him temporarily gone, Haruko returned her attention to Naota.

"Sooo…what's new? Nice buzz cuzz, when'd you get the haircut?" Her gaze flitted up and down his height, like she was sizing him up for a potential fight.

"Not too much, I obviously don't live in Japan anymore."

"Yeah, where exactly is here anyway? Looks a little more…rural, than Mabase." She stood on top of a larger rock to peep out of the crater, seeing ridgeline and ridgeline of forest.

"Look out below!" Rig warned, then tossed down a length of chain with a heavy hook on the end. "Hook that onto something and lemme know when you're ready for me to pull!"

"All set!" After wrapping and securing the chain around the Vespa's engine housing, Naota gave Rig the go-ahead. With a roar from the Bronco's V-8, the clunk of a chain being pulled taunt, and the nails on a chalkboard screech of metal on shale, the Vespa popped free of the ground. He and Haruko each grabbed a handlebar, righting the scooter so it wouldn't be dragged through the crater.

"Hey." As they eased the Vespa up the slope, shoulder to shouler, Haruko playfully bumped his hip with hers. "It's nice to see you again." Caught off guard, he felt his face turn the slightest shades of red. Giggling, she leaned in, nose to nose, to whisper: "Hee-hee. Gotcha."

. . .

Naota and Haruko rode in the Bronco's jump seats back to the shop, making sure the Vespa didn't slip and slide around during the drive. We'd picked up as many pieces as we would ever find, and would come back later to pick the area over again. I watched the pair in my rear view mirror, especially the pink-haired one. They seemed to be getting' along okay, even with Naota lookin' like he'd been force fed a lemon. Haruko's mouth was movin' like the flapper feathers over a duck's ass; her file had failed to mention that she never shut up. Naota appeared sufficiently annoyed; like he'd been stuck babysitting some irritating younger cousin. While they chatted, I sent a quick text to Tommy and George:

 _Naota has a visitor from out of town, an old friend. Will entertain shop, U should meet them; very interesting._

They buzzed back just as I stopped outside the shop's main doors. Both messages were to the same effect:

 _Sounds like fun, would love to meet them. Stuck in traffic, home ASAP._

That meant, for the next few hours, I was on my own. All the horror stories of Haruko's misdeeds were on repeat in my head; thirty I.I.B. agents wiped out…And here was me, Johnny, Mike, Canti and Naota. If she took a loony fit, we were screwed. But at the same time, I had to find a way to keep here there. We couldn't have her just wander off and do Christ knows what.

"Rig! We heard the explosion, are you guys okay?!" Mike and Johnny rushed out of the shop, followed closely by Canti.

"Yo! Canti, long time, no see!" Haruko noticed him right off the bat, kinda hard not to I suppose. "Still hangin' out with Naota huh?" Canti politely waved, then gave Naota a look, tilting his head to the side as if he was asking 'Seriously? What's she doing here?' Naota must've understood Canti somehow as he just shrugged and followed her into the shop.

"We're fine, the runway ain't though." I told Johnny and Mike, nodding over at Haruko. " _Somebody,_ made a hole in it big 'nough to hide a coal truck."

"Ohhhh…George's not gonna be happy with that." Johnny understated the obvious. "So, what do we do in the meantime until he or Tommy get back?" He looked over my shoulder, watching Naota and Canti unload the Vespa, supervised by Haruko.

"Keep her here. That's all I got, any ideas?"

"Hmmm…Johnny, the 'Clueless Mechanic' routine?" Mike suggested. "You remember. The 'I ain't never seen no en-gine like this'n here, no-where, no-how' schitck?"

"Oh yeah…that could work." Johnny agreed, then turned to me. "Don't worry Rig, we'll keep her here 'till Kingdom Come." The Clueless Mechanic is a stalling technique, you've no doubt experienced it while getting anything worked on. The mechanic can't find the problem, then can never find the right tool, and all the while taking numerous coffee, bathroom, cigarette, dip, fresh air and union mandated breaks. Unfortunately for us, Haruko wasn't that patient, or stupid.

"Y'know, this would go a whole lot faster if you'd just let me do it." She said, elbowing her way between Mike and Johnny. She was also not appreciating the barrage of questions being asked of her: her treks through space, the GSPB, what life on other planets was like, how the inner workings of her Vespa ticked and so on.

"Well there's a thing about you doing the work yourself, with our tools and equipment." Naota said, watching Haruko with intense scrutiny. He certainly trusted her only as far as he could throw her. "See?"

"You gotta be kidding me." She sighed, lookin' up at the sign Naota'd pointed out, hanging from the rafters. It was the labor rates for the shop, and she had already racked up and hour and a half's worth. Our rates are as follows:

Labor in this shop will be assessed at the following rates. These are non-negotiable and final:

-$45.00 / hour – Basic

-$55.00 / hour – If you watch us work

-$65.00 / hour – If you tried to work on it yourself first

-$75.00 / hour – If you tried to work on it yourself first, and don't tell us (We WILL know!)

-$85.00 / hour – If you insist on "helping"

-$100.00 / hour – If you offer us "advice" on how to do our job

"We take cash or money orders only; none of that plastic stuff." Naota added. "And checks, don't make me laugh."

"Then you're SOL 'cause I don't have any money." She put the tools down and looked like she was makin' ready to leave. No, no, no! Don't leave! Dammit Naota, why'd you have to mention her paying for parts and labor?! Why, why, why you doofus?!

"Uhm, hey, hold up a second." I had been holding my idea back as a last resort, and this was the time to use it, if ever. George was gonna crucify me for it, but I thought it had a chance of succeeding. It was based on the story Naota told me about how Haruko had hired herself out to a rival baseball team to help pay the electric bill. She was willing to work for extra money to finance her goals, and with the severe structural damage her bike had sustained (weeks worth of repairs), her now empty gas tank and broken Gundam module, she would need some quick cash.

"What?" Mercifully for me, she actually stopped just shy of the door.

"I'd like to help you out, especially since I bled off the last of your fuel. How's about you work here for a bit?" My offer got several responses.

"NO!" From Naota. Obviously he was not thrilled about the idea.

"Really?" From Haruko, smiling through her disbelief.

"Heh?" From Johnny and Mike, both wondering what the hell I was doing.

"Yes, Naota." I said, waiting for Haruko to answer.

"No. I distinctly said no." He got off his stool and crossed his arms.

"And I distinctly heard you. But it's not your decision to make, so sit down. Now, Mizz Haruko, you've traveled many a weary mile to reach our little planet, I'm sure. Naota told me you're looking for some cat named, ahm…Adam, Atticus…Atomsk! Right?"

"He told you right." She now put down her Vespa's kickstand and leaned against the door frame. "What 'bout it?"

"So, why don't you take some time to get your bearings, rest up and refit? Fix your bike and earn some cash for any expenses you might run into on your, ah, hunt, for lack of a better word. Whattah yah say?"

. . .

The gears in Haruko's head whirred and clicked along, considering Rig's offer. Crash landing just three quarters of a mile from Naota's new home had certainly not been part of her plan; yet there he was. But her Vespa's engine had given out with the sudden jarring of entering the atmosphere at much too high of a clip, and with it went most of her influence over its speed and direction too. Normally it would have been able to handle the impact against the planet's shield, but four years of little to no maintenance and running the engine too hot, too long, had pushed her faithful steed to its breaking point. She had done the only thing within her control: held on and braced for impact. It was just her luck that she had managed to wrangle her machine in the general direction of the first runway shaped section of ground she could find. The plan had been to get planet-side in the general vicinity of Atomsk, track him down…then a lumbering question mark popped up, followed by profit? But four years of running to Atomsk and away from Medical Mechanica, the I.I.B., G.S.P.B and the G.G., was burning her out.

Chronic exhaustion didn't begin to cover how she felt, even before slamming into Earth face-first. Every joint of hers ached, her back strained from untold time hunched over the handlebars, her feet smarted from being stuck in her tall-heeled boots, her stomach twisted in knife-stab knots as it was empty more often than it was even half full…and now her pride and joy was totaled. A reprieve would be more than welcome, a chance to gather her strength. Getting some solid meals in her belly, sleeping on a real bed with real sheets, and replenishing her long empty wallet were also oh so tempting. Atomsk was in the area, so she knew she didn't have to immediately dash off again; she could afford to wait.

Another draw to her was Naota's friend, this…Rig. He had kept his distance from her, but watched her the entire time just out of the edge of her vision. His handshake back at the crater had been a crushing vice, like he was trying to intimidate her, or compensate for his own fear. Either way, something about the way he carried himself struck Haruko as familiar. It was the same way former Overwatch agents she had met acted. They would appear to onlooker's average and unsuspecting, friendly, charming and smile pleasantly when they spoke to you. But there was a sharpness to them, an awareness of everything and everyone happening around them, observing their surroundings, looking for threats, weaknesses, opportunities, information and whatever else they could gather; and constantly just one shade below full alert. Even his eyes were brimming with a sheen that betrayed his wolf in sheep's clothing demeanor. Lastly was the heavy metal carbiner dangling from his left hip's belt loop, swinging with his stride. Such an odd thing to be wearing as a mere accessory; her curiosity was piqued. That carabiner and its owner were something to look out for, and maybe just worth sticking around. Then Rig added the final, irresistible cherry on top of it all.

"Hey, if anythin', think of it as a chance to catch up with and pester Naota; and get paid for it."

"Well why didn't you just say so from the get-go?" She cackled, watching Naota groan and roll his eyes. "Sign me up."

. . .

"Can, can I talk to you for a moment Rig?" Naota asked as he, Haruko and I exited the shop floor and headed for the office.

"Sure, what's up? In here Mizz Haruko." I opened the door and let her in.

"Can I talk to you, in _private_?" Oh, I see how it is. I was planning on having this talk later than sooner, but okay fine, sooner it is; since Naota seemed so insistent.

"Ssssure. Go on an' sit down Haruko, make yerself at home. We'll be right back." I closed the door on her and led Naota off to the side of the shop, where our small depot of trailers sits. I plopped down on a low-boy and took out my tobacco tin, preparing for whatever complaints Naota had to voice takes a full lip. "S'up Nao'?" I asked, lip sufficiently packed.

"Are you stoned?!" He didn't take a seat, but elected to stand and pace angrily 'bout. "Is that even tobacco you're chewing? You must be stoned!"

"Only thang I'm high on is life man, what of it?" I chewed hard and spit. "Just get whatever it is out in the open, what's buggin' you?"

"Did you not listen to any of the stories I told you about her?" He pointed back at the office. "How she's absolutely nuts, a psychopath, manipulative as can be, and nearly _destroyed_ Earth?! Did you somehow manage to forget all of that?!"

"Oh quite the contrary. I remember it all." I pulled my pocket notebook from my shirt and flipped through it. "Your description of a Mizz Haruko Haruhara: Five-six, slim build, yellow eyes, pink hair, banana yeller Vespa scooter, carries a double-necked guitar, disavowed from the G.S.P.B., created your N.O. channel, attempted the same on your Dad, nearly killing him, provoked you to bring out M-M bots, decimated an I.I.B. squad, allowed M-M to activate their plant, which would've destroyed the planet, and…" I saved le piece de resistance for last. "Twisted, played and toyed with and broke your heart. Did I miss anything?"

"…No, that, yeah, that pretty much sums her up. Did you really write all that down?" He asked as I folded and put the notebook away.

"That, and then some. But yes, I know who she is based on what you've told me. And to be honest, I'm amazed you're so calm man; I'm freakin' out with her bein' here." And that was the honest truth folks.

"Okay, then why're you offering her a job?" He asked slowly, trying to guess at my reasons.

"To keep her here, at least until Tommy or George get back. I mean, would it be wise to just let her go, to flounce off into the countryside to rampage around unchecked?"

"Of course not, but shouldn't we just, I dunno, call the cops or something?"

"What're we gonna tell them? Hey nine-one-one! I'd like to report a pink-haired alien on a yeller scooter that done crashed in my backyard. She's wanted by an otherworldly government you've never heard of because she tried to capture a space pirate and nearly destroyed Earth in the process. Could you send a unit out to pick her up? I tell you what, they'd send a unit out alright: to put us in straight-jackets and throw us in a padded room! Because the situation I just described sounds bat-shit crazy! I mean, I believe you, I really do. But dispatch sure's hell won't."

"So what's your master plan then? To just keep her here until she annoys me to an early grave? I say we show her the door and say good riddance."

"Again, at least until George or Tommy get back; which should be within the hour. I don't have a real plan, that's it. They'll know what to do, who to call. I mean, they're the adults right? They have to know. Just, trust me, to trust them, okay? He paced 'round some more, shootin' dirty glances back at the office. I could see he was none too pleased about her literally falling back into his life. But that was too bad, 'cause it had already happened, like it or not. His options were to bitch and moan, or deal with it. Mature and smart as he was, I bet on the latter.

"Fine. You're my supervisor anyway, not like it's my call to make; who you hire." He finally relented. "I don't like it, but I won't let it bother me, or make a big deal about it."

"That's the spirit, and what I needed to hear." I spat again, stretched and stood up from the trailer. "Now let's go get her paperwork started; George an' Tommy'll be home soon." We were almost to the office when my phone rang. "Y'ello? George, I was just…" George cut me off. He had a lot to say, and none of it was good.

. . .

"Yes…yes. I understand. I'll be there soon's I can." Rig had lingered by the door, talking to his Uncle on the phone. He came into the office, shutting the door and mumbling silently to himself. His face had turned a slight shade of pale and he was silent for a moment once he sat down; staring at the bookshelf behind Naota and Haruko.

"Uh…Rig?" Naota asked, searching for signs of life. "You okay?"

"What? Oh, yes. Perfectly, thank you." He smiled, then drifted off again for a moment. "Forgive me. I just received some troubling news, just work related, don' worry 'bout it."

"Nothing serious I hope?" Haruko inquired, lounged across the swivel chair she had chosen.

"No, just something with a work colleague. Now…" He reached into the desk and drew up the same papers Naota had signed. "These are your employment terms, everythin's spelled out. Any questions, ask now or forever cede your right to complain. Naota…" He paused to look, and force an obviously strained smile, at Naota before continuing. "Will be your supervisor. You will do as he says, go where he goes, unless explicitly directed otherwise. Clear?"

"As mud, sounds like fun." She made her marks and handed over the papers. Rig didn't review them all, just scanned for her initials before putting the papers away and heading for the door. "Where're you headed in such a hurry? Got a hot date waitin' for you?"

"In a way, yes. Sorry to cut out, but I really gotta go. Uh, welcome Mizz Haruko to the team and all that, Nao'll show you 'round and introduce you formally to everyone. It's five thirty now so work's over. George an' Tommy won't be back, I've gotta go meet them. So Naota, entertain your new coworker. See y'all…most likely, tomorrow. Later!" Rig picked up and started up his waiting Ought-Too and took off like a bat out of Hell; not even bothering with the goggles hanging from the handlebars or putting his kerchief over his face as was his habit. In a few seconds, an engine's roar, and a cloud of dust, he was gone.

"So what's there to do around here for fun?" Haruko asked, from somewhere behind him. Naota turned to see she was perched atop G&R's oldest bulldozer, an ancient D6, strumming the Flying-V portion of her guitar. "Looks like things are a bit slower around here, but I guess that's more your speed?"

"There's plenty to do, none just immediately come to mind." He said, taking his first serious look at her. It wasn't good. Simply put, she was a wreck. Dark purple bags hung heavily under sunken, bloodshot eyes. Her face was thinner, cheekbones and jawline sharper than he remembered, and her skin was beginning to turn a pale, sickly, ashen hue. Her clothes were the same style (he prayed not the _exact_ same) as before, the black leather pants, white knee-high boots, red jacket and lemon chiffron scarf. But now they all hung loosely on her frame and were threadbare at best. The scarf was unraveling, the leather of her pants was cracking and the soles of her boots were beginning to peel away. As determined as he was to be angry at her for trespassing into his life, again, when he had been happily in the process of forgetting her, he couldn't help but feel sorry for her. Four years on the lam, running herself ragged in pursuit of what he thought to be a fever dream she'd never catch. All that time in the cold vastness of uncaring space, leaping after shadows of rumors in a seemingly self-destructive bid for unlimited power. Actually seeing her forced him to recognize all that she had been suffering, and his attitude towards her shifted by the smallest of degrees.

"You wanna go get something to eat?"

"Hmm?" Her ears pricked up and she looked away from the guitar. "Get something to eat? Is that what they here on Earth call…a date?"

"Siiiiiiggghhh…do you want something to eat, or not?" Four years, and nothing had changed.

"It's a date then! Where're we going Don Juan? Somewhere romantic, like Italian? Or maybe…are you listening?"

"No, I'm plotting how to murder Rig when he gets back." Natoa grumbled, still fuming how Rig had just dumped Haruko on him. Whatever Rig had been called away for, it had damn well better be _extremely_ important. Someone had to be bleeding out, or there was a flood, an explosion at a mine, or something was very much on fire; a life and death matter.

. . .

* * *

Songs:

*It came out of the sky - Creedence Clearwater Revival

(I would put a * for Let's Twist again - Chubby Checker, but since I gave the song title and singer in the story, and didn't put in any lyrics, what's the point?)

Well, the cat's out of the bag, has run around the house, knocked over the lamp, peed on the rug and hisses every time you come near it. Or in simpler terms, Haruko is back. She may be tired and worn out, but her mind is as sharp as ever. How will that play out for Naota and Overwatch? You'll just have to wait 'till next time!

I hope you're enjoying this story as much as I am, it's much more fun to write this time around; feels less like work and more like play. Hopefully that has shown thus far, and will continue to do so. I have a bunch of ideas and things I want to do with this tale, but as always, would greatly appreciate ideas of your own, questions, comments, concerns and so forth; right in that review box...or PM me. I sit at a computer 9-10 hours a day, I get to check my email often. I do read and respond to every review (if FF allows me to do so) and PM I get. You took the time to read my stuff, I can at the very least acknowledge that. Thank you again for reading, please let me know how I'm doing!


	5. Chapter 5

Okay, right...so. Here's what's up: my mandatory hours for work, that's what. It's the beginning of the new year, which means 45 hour weeks again! That also means getting time to write is that much harder, which really bums me out, 'cause this's pretty darn fun. But using my lunch breaks and a few late weekends, I've finally gotten enough down for a new chapter! Woo-hoo! Now, this one is a bit shorter than the last few, but I think the cut-off point was perfect. Was I right, or wrong? Read on and you decide.

* * *

. . .

Oh no…no, no, no, no, nooooo…This day had already gone down the drain, slipped into the sewer and was headed for the shit treatment plant, but was somehow managing to get worse. I was already nervous about explaining to George how Haruko was now a G&R employee, but his phone call had me in a cold sweat despite the July heat. An emergency meeting of the gas, oil and miner bosses had been called, and someone was supposedly hurt bad. From what George had told me, the group was in the beginning stages of panic. In my rush, I opted for the Ought-Too over my Bronco so I could cut time by running the old logging roads. I even blew straight past Midstate's main gate and the terminal, then bee-lined down the runway itself, rather than go around.

"Evenin' gennellmen. What's with the worry, the hubbub, where's the fire?" I asked once I'd stopped and everyone present flinched. "What?"

"Too soon Rig." Tommy said, fiddlin' with his wallet chain. "Way, way, waaaaay too soon."

"What'd I say?" I looked 'round the circle of grim, fear-riddled faces and noticed one was missing. "Hang…hang on a secon'…where's Mister Dahl?"

"He's in the hospital's burn unit." Mr. Pike didn't ease into it, but ripped the band-aid right off. "About two hours ago, a group of someone's pulled up outside Dahl's house and started lobbing Molotov's at it; burned half the place down." As Mr. Pike talked, that bowlin' ball in my stomach from earlier seemed to triple in density. Mr. Dahl? That pleasant old Deutschlander? Firebombed?! Already my mind was filling with lists of potential 'who-dun-it's' and their possible motives; none were good.

"Is he gonna be okay?"

"He's tough's the rest of us." Mr. Welshman vouched for Mr. Dahl's fortitude. "He'll pull through."

"What else do we know besides Dahl's condition?" Tommy was trying to steer the conversation towards some sort of action. He had fallen a little farther from the tree in that he was significantly more proactive than his father. George was content to let things play out on their own and be other people's problems. Which is fine, at the proper times. Unfortunately in this case, our idleness had resulted in Mr. Dahl's near-death and loss of half his house. "Anything an' everything's important, whatever you've heard, whatever you've got."

"Well, I know from the scanner I've got at home that an Officer Kauffman responded first to the scene, so there's that." Mr. King offered, eliciting a groan from George, Tommy and I. "Yeah, I thought that'd be your reaction."

"Not Kauffman…" Tommy sighed, looking up at the sky as if asking God what he'd done to deserve such a blow.

"Why is that a bad thing?" Mr. Chartier inquired. As he was still relatively new, he wasn't fully versed on the numerous family-based squabbles in the area; including ours. Some, like the one I'm 'bout to lay on you, dear reader, have been goin' on for generations.

"It's bad 'cause the whole Kauffman family hates our guts." I gave the short version.

"And the feeling's mutual." Tommy spat a dallop of tobacco juice in disgust.

"I thought we had decided we were going to be 'above that', right Tom?" George turned to Tommy, both looking surly. This conversation was older than me. "Something about the moral high ground?"

"I'll give an inch when they do."

"Hey, I don't like them any more than you…"

"With all the bullshit we've tolerated?" Tommy's voice was starting to rise, not a good sign. "They even went after Rig at his last motocross race! They caught Chris, _on camera_ , cutting Rig's brake line; he nearly died when he crashed on turn two!" Oh yeah…I remembered, even if George had conveniently forgotten. With the Ought-Too's brake lines cut, I couldn't get slowed down enough to make the banked turn, flew off a twenty foot tall dirt mound at forty miles an hour, and landed in the lake that had pooled in the midfield area. Between my helmet filling up with water and trying to save my bike, I'd nearly drowned.

"Tommy's got a good point George." With the crappy day I'd been having, mere mention of that race was enough to get my temper flared. "And I suppose Grandpap just…I dunno, drove his tractor Thelma and Louise style off the runway?"

"That's enough, out of both of you!" Now George's dander was up, his warning sign was his face turning red.

"Oh come on George!" Tommy ignored George's command to drop the subject. "Grandpap mowed that runway a thousand times, then the _one_ day no one else was even on the property, he suddenly loses his ability to drive a tractor? Dunlap even said he saw one of the Kauffman's trucks headed for our place…"

"I said that is enough! We'll discuss this later!"

"No, we won't." I shot back. "Every time, it's the same thing. You always shout us down, change to subject or forget. I say we talk about this right here and n…"

" _HEY!_ For Christ's sake, will you three give it ah fuckin' rest already?!" Mr. Voyze's shout shook all present like lightnin' had struck us; the echoes across the runway reminiscent of thunder. "Jesus, Mary and Joseph. You Carson's bitch at each other more than a buncha schoolgirls. The fuck's ah-matter with you?! _You're_ supposed to be the professionals here; act like it!" For what felt like a full minute we stood, struck dumb under Mr. Voyze's furious gaze. I had forgot to mention this last time, but once upon a time, Mr. Voyze also answered to Sergeant Voyze…sound about right to you? "Now, if you old biddies are done squawking, I have something you need to see."

"Yessir, we're done." I found my voice. It had been cowering in my left back pocket behind next to the tobacco tin. "I apologize for our unprofessionalism."

"Before we go any further, if you're willing to wait Monsieur Voyze…" Mr. Chartier's curiosity was as strong as ever. "I'd like to know the history behind this Carson, Kauffman…hostility."

"Fair 'nough." Mr. Voyze allowed. "Provided they behave themselves." He glared at us again.

"Okay…" There was a collective sigh from the three of us as we tried to get our blood pressure to cede to normal levels. Tommy still looked positively murderous and George red in the ears, so it fell to me to talk.

"Here's how I understand it, stop me if I'm wrong." George and Tommy merely shot each other dirty looks so I sallied forth. "Back in the fifties, Great-grandad Carson started G&R, same time's Kauffman's started a gas station. And yes, G&R was an Overwatch front even then. Anyway, Great-grandad needed to fill up one of his trucks, one of its thirty gallon tanks was half empty. So he stops at Kauffman's, starts pumpin' gas an' is watching the ticker on the machine. He notices he's somehow put twenty five gallons into a half empty thirty gallon tank. That meant one of two things, either the machine was broken, or Kauffman's had rigged it to give the wrong price. He decides him an' Mister Kauffman were gonna have a little _chat._ Well, Mister Kauffman didn' take too kindly to being called a thief, and when Great-grandad said he'd let the police be the judge of that, a fight got started; a fight that destroyed the inside of that gas station. Also, on account of the noise it made, got the cops called anyway."

"So were the pumps really rigged after all?" Mr. Chartier asked.

"Uh-huh. They were all mechanical back then, so changing out a gear wasn't hard. The police found the pumps were rigged and the Kauffman's lost ownership of the store an' their name's been Mudd 'round here ever since. Now, when Great-grandad died, Grandpap took over G&R. He wanted to bury the hatchet, and maybe, if they proved themselves redeemed, start recruiting them into Overwatch. Worth a shot right? So he offered the men of the Kauffman family a chance to work, for him. They told him straight up they 'didn't want his pity or charity, and it'd be a cold day in Hell when they'd work for a Carson.' Grandpap…he kinda lost his temper. He told them if they couldn't hack it in Osceola or Philipsburg as professional delinquents and thought too good of themselves to go dig coal, they outta cut their losses an' darken the land with their shadows elsewhere. Guess how well that went over?"

"Another fight I'd assume."

"And correctly. Grandpap, and his brother was there too, won that one. But Grandpap's brother decided after the fact he'd taken as much of the feud as he could, and was fed up with Pennsylvania in general too. His half of the family uprooted and moved out to Michigan that same month…we don't hear too much from them these days. Movin' on 'bout a month after that, Mister Dunlap, down the road from us, spotted a truck loaded with Kauffman, headed for our house. It was a Friday afternoon so everyone had left work and no one else was on the property, just Grandpap. Come Monday, they found him crushed under his tractor at the bottom of the mountain, havin' rolled the whole way down."

"And the suspicion immediately fell on the Kauffman's for foul play, but there was no proof?"

"Yes. And, since that day, they've been bidin' their time to off the rest of us…"

"Thank you Rig, that will do." George cut in 'fore I could get into full conspiracy theory mode. "We'll talk about family matters, _at home._ " And with that last cut in his voice, I knew it was time for me to shut up.

"I think that would be best." Mr. Solomon agreed. The second eldest of the group, he knew our story quite well. "Now that Mr. Chartier's question has been answered, I would like to get back on topic and address whatever you're holding in your hand Mr. Voyze."

"About time." Mr. Voyze handed over a printed out picture from someone's digital camera. "That was taken by the lady living across the street from Dahl. She gave it to me when I got there, said she didn't trust the police with it. Her words were 'I'm afraid it will _accidentally_ lost in some sort of filing error', or something like that." We looked down at the picture to see a ranch style house, already half engulfed in flames. In the forefront, silhouetted by the inferno, was a white and blue 2006 Honda Civic. An oddly familiar looking Civic, with a six foot spoiler, dropped an inch off the ground and complete with blue and black flames painted around the wheel-wells.

"Hey Rig…" Tommy had noticed the car's signature look too. "Ain't that the piece of rice burnin' shit Craig bomb's 'round in?"

"Yah know Tom, I think it is. Craig worked for Mister Dahl, didn' he?"

"Uh-huh. Craig Kauffman, office clerk, and grab-happy pervert." Mr. Welshman said. "Had some trouble keepin' his mitts to himself. And, now that I think on it…" He puffed his pipe in thought, the glowin' coals tossed shadows around his face. "I had a Kauffman brother workin' for me too. Carl, a downright nasty and mean piece of work."

"Me too, a Kauffman that is." Mr. Pike realized. "Clyde Kauffman, the epitome of bad habits and zero self-control."

"Mine was Caleb, I let him go for failing his drug tests." Mr. Chartier joined the club of former Kauffman employers. "Wait. Wait a minute. Didn't, we _all_ have a Kauffman working for us in the past year?" The revelation went 'round the circle, hittin' each man in turn.

"Cole, a true psychopath." Mr. Solomon gravely recalled.

"Carl, walking roid-rage." Mr. Welshman remembered with his usual gruff.

"Caleb, the definition of a lush." Monsieur Chartier shook his head. "Craig with his promiscuity, worked for Dahl…who else was there?"

"Clyde, what a greedy, miserable bastard." Mr. Pike certainly didn't hold his former employee in high regard.

"Chris, that arrogant little prick thinks the sun shines outta his ass." Mr. King didn't pull punches in his assessment.

"That leaves Cody, and me." Mr. Voyze finished off the Kauffman Brothers, the last remnants of their family name. "Never have I met such an ungrateful kid. You could start a vineyard with all the whine that brat's got."

"Okay, lemme see if I've got this straight." Tommy said, rubbing his temples like he was getting a headache from all the new info. "All y'all've been having sabotage problems at your businesses, have been threatened by a mysterious out-of-towner who looks _exactly_ like my worst nightmare, have fired a family worth of brothers with a reputation for fuckin' shit up and despise the very air my family breathes, and now one of your contemporaries is in the hospital with burns on thirty percent of his body…so…" He twisted his face into a forced grimace and turned to his Dad. "Georgie-boy. How do you want that crow you're gonna haftah eat prepared? Stewed, roasted, baked or broiled? I'm sure it'll do just's well in a fricassee or ragout…"

"Duly noted Thomas! Thank you!" George's response was curt, he hated being wrong; and even more, wrong in front of others. "Alright, fine. I was wrong. There, happy?"

"We would be happier if we knew your plans." Mr. Solomon said. "I have understood our relationship as a two-way street. Our end provides your eyes and ears, and you your expertise in dealing with Medical Mechanica incursions. Now that one of us has been put in the hospital, nearly the morgue, and the rest of us surely to suffer the same fate if we do not fall in line, what will you do Carsons?"

All eyes swiveled to us, then focused on George. He was madly twistin' his ring, like just one more turn was the magic number to send him back to Kansas; 'long as he said 'there's no place like home'. See, George's…well, how to put this? He never 'xactly was what I'd call the 'go-getter' type, that gene skipped him and Tommy got it instead. His default was to punt; let it be someone else's problem, so I don't have to deal with it. Which can work, but only for so long until all the things you thought had gone away all come back at once. Or, in this case, land Mr. Dahl in the hospital and us with at least on Kauffman brother and his pet firebug named Molotov.

"Before we go any farther…" George had, at long last, made his decision. "We need to lay down some ground rules. Not mine, standard Overwatch practice."

"Let's hear it then." Mr. Pike said, not looking the least bit happy about the mention of Rules of Engagement. Hey, everyone has rules they gotta play by. The I.I.B., G.S.P.B and Overwatch are far from exempt.

"First, only Tommy, Rig, myself or our other agents, will be the ones doing any sort of investigating into this. That's our place, yours is with your workers and keeping them safe. Second, if we DO find anyone responsible or involved with Medical Mechanica, we will handle it. The cops would just _loooove_ to catch themselves a band of vigilantes dispensing frontier justice, or whatever bullshit they'd call it. Lastly, we will keep your properly updated the entire time. Never will we leave our friends in the dark. On that note, if you should find out _anything_ , you immediately come to us; don't go off after leads yourselves."

"What, think we can't handle ourselves?" Mr. Pike again. His tone indicated a strong desire to go to Craig's house right that moment and drag the dude out by the short hairs; like the al-Qaeda leaders he'd help take down in Iraq.

"Mr. Pike, if a Man in Black really is involved…" George slowly explained, trying to hammer this point home. "No. You can't. That is with no disrespect to you, your service, or any of you. But, these, _things_ , we call Men in Black are what people on other planets tell legends about; they're true boogeymen. A regular human, or even a group of them, doesn't stand a chance."

"Now that we've got you completely terrified…" Tommy saw the growing looks of fright around the circle. "Allow me to attempt reassuring you by saying they aren't invincible; they react to a bullet in the skull same's us."

"Small comfort." Mr. King was pale under a layer of permanent coal dust. "But I'll hang onto the thought, it'll keep me warm."

"You're welcome!" Tommy grinned, then checked his watch. "Okay, it's gettin' late, time to wrap this up. Quick recap sound good? Rig, I see you've been taking notes?" Indeed I had, scribbling in my pocket notebook as was my habit.

"Oookay…lemme flip back to the startin' page…okay. Ahhh…Herr Dahl's been firebombed, survived but is in the hospital. Suspects are members of the Kauffman family, given by evidence at the scene and prompt response by Officer Cole Kauffman. Motive is revenge for firings, and possibly payoff from Medical Mechanica agents. We, Overwatch, will investigate accordingly within our authority. Meanwhile, you will…"

"Continue to recruit and train a response, see about that…" Mr. Welshman took time away from his pipe to speak. "That's something I've wanted to bring up. My supervisors are on board, but the guys you actually want, they ain't. None of us can get through to 'em, too scared maybe, I dunno."

"I think, that'll be a talk for next time." Tommy said slowly. Mr. Welshman had the second largest workforce of the group, we couldn't afford to lose it, from what I'd heard. "Tell yah what, I'll personally come down and talk to 'em, sound good?"

"Better you than me." Mr. Welshman shrugged. "That's all I had, anything else?" Everyone shook their heads no.

"Then let's get outta here." George called it quits. "Remember, same usual time on the usual day, at the usual spot. Stay alert, stay safe!" The six miners and drillers said their good nights, got into their trucks and went their separate ways. That left us, the Terriffic Carson Trio, at the end of the runway.

"Sooooo…Rig…" Tommy spat and gave me his Cheshire Cat smile. "About that text earlier?"

"Oh, heh-heh. Yeah. The text. The text I sent. The text I sent to you. My text, for you. Your text."

"Jeff. You're stalling." Uh-oh. Georg's bringin' out the Real Name Gun. Okay, okay… "I'm assuming it's Haruko that arrived today. So what's the deal?"

"First, I wouldn't call what she did to the runway 'arriving', but that's not the funniest part…"

"The runway?! What happened?!"

"Easy George, let Rig finish. What's up Cochise?"

"Okay…promise you won't be mad…"

. . .

"Hey, take it easy. The pizza's not gonna get up and run away." Naota cautioned as Haruko started into the second half of her extra-large, extra cheese, extra pepperoni, extra-extra-spicy pizza. "Slow down and savor the flavors, taste the blended spices… _chew_ …"

"Nom?" She stopped for a moment with one slice halfway eaten, a second in her right hand and a third in her left, still attached to the rest of the pizza. "AAAaaahhh-ooommmm! Ah! Hey, girl's gotta eat yah know. It takes a lot of energy to be this awesome."

"I'm sure it does." He half-agreed and had himself another bite. Hi-Way Pizza was the usual sardine can, but they had managed to secure a booth. It was a surreal feeling, sitting with Haruko and having dinner; like they were two normal people. So removed from his life and memory for so long, there were days where he wondered if there had been a chance he'd imagined the entire affair from four years back. But there she was. Blunt, shifting in her attitudes and facades with every wisp o' the wind, obnoxious, a tease and hot tempered as ever. Four years and no change. "So you've plumbed the deepest depths of my past your years for the past hour. What about you? How's that 'chasing down Atomsk and becomin' the Pirate Queen' shtick workin' out?"

. . .

"Oh, you know…there's been a few setbacks…" Haruko evaded, playing with their table's toothpick dispenser.

"Really? A few? Four years' worth of setbacks seems more like a few…" Naota said, helping himself to another slice of pizza. "Do you have a strategy, a ten-point plan…" He paused to sprinkle some of the Italian spices from the shaker onto his pizza. "Or are you just pullin' everything outta your ass?"

"Hey! I got a plan alright! It's too risky to tell anyone though, op-sec and all that. You know what op-sec means? It's…"

"Operational Security, I know. My skull may be empty, but I'm not retarded."

"Well, look at you, all up on the slang. But yeah, too risky to tell anyone, even you. Not like anyone in this Hicksville would understand it anyway." She scoffed, looking around at the other diners. Under-evolved monkeys, the lot of 'em. None could hope to comprehend her genius.

"Whatever helps you live with yourself." Naota shrugged, like he was only half-listening. The nerve of him! Wasn't he just dying to know what she'd been up to? Perhaps this was a ploy, he was waiting for the perfect moment to offer a long-planned confession of how he'd held a candle for her all these years? That would be quite flattering indeed, perhaps she could use that sentimentality to get another pizza… "Hey! I'm talking to you!"

"Hmm? You say something?" Lost in her own thoughts, Naota's bark had brought her back to reality.

"Never mind." He rolled his eyes in annoyance and temporarily went back to his pizza. Unable to contain himself, he dropped it on his plate. "Okay, you know what? I did say something." Whatever he had to say, it didn't sound like lavish adorations.

"Yeeeessss…?" She asked, her question accented with batted eyelashes.

"The fuck is your deal?" Oooo…kay. Not what she had expected, or hoped for. "Here I am, moved a continent, ocean and four years away from Mabase, and you just, show up! Not even a mile away from my new house!"

"A coincidence, I assure you. A happy accident."

"A happy accident? No, no, no. Bob Ross has happy accidents. _You_ have clusterfucks. Besides, do I look happy?"

"Sooo…you're _not_ happy to see me then?" What the fuck was _her_ deal? Never mind that, what the fuck was _HIS_ deal?! Had he not confessed his love for her four years ago? That was four years removed, but still. Not, you know, like she cared. It was a, comforting thought that her charms had worked on him then; and nearly accomplished her goal. But seriously, what was with all the negativity?!

"No! No, I'm not happy! I'm the polar opposite of happy! I'm pissed! In fact, I'm half wishing that your crashing into the Carson's runway had broken your goddamn neck."

"Well, and it's lovely to see you too, thanks sooooo much for asking." All the crap she had put up with and this was the welcoming back to Earth she got?! "What's with the attitude? So we didn't part on the best of terms…"

"Nearly allowing Medical Mechanica to take over the planet and trying to cave my skull in is what you call not the best of terms?" He now looked at her sideways, like she'd just grown a third eye in the middle of her forehead.

"Sure, why not? Hey, no one got hurt." She really didn't appreciate where this conversation was going, nor its tone. Bored with Naota's problems, she scanned the restaurant and its patrons. Humans, such a pitifully backwards race. Easily frightened and conquered, hopelessly behind in technology. How they had the gall to join the Galactic Government, and even offer their own as agents, she couldn't begin to understand. The fact Natoa's N.O. portal had worked had been a stroke of…HEY! WHAT THE HELL IS THIS?!

"Do I have your attention now?" Naota snarled, fists clenched around her scarf, pulling her halfway across the table.

'I let my attention wander for one second…and he does this.' She thought, blearily staring into Naota's anger-filled face a few inches away. 'Not like I can't kick his ass…but what's he want _now?_ '

"No one got hurt? That monster that came out of my head smashed a two-mile long, two hundred yard wide path through town, not to mention everything it shot with stray rounds…speaking of which! You personally shot up an entire block yourself with the Four-Thousand-One, and killed like, thirty guys from the I.I.B.! Were they nobody? Were the people in my town nobody?!" He demanded, giving her a jarring shake as her gaze wandered somewhere less grumpy. Forced to give him her attention again, she decided she might as well go over the new Naota she was dealing with.

First and foremost was his height. The little guy she'd left had grown, an inch or two taller than her in fact. The rest of his body had filled out accordingly, but he was still slimmer in frame than his stockier friend Rig. His grip was iron, hands now powerful and beginning to turn leathery with accumulated callouses. Holding her across the table flexed once thin arms, now with the beginning signs of rope-like veins, broader shoulders hunched together astride his neck; someone had been hittin' the weights. But the two biggest changes were his eyes and his demeanor. The eyes had once been soft brown like chocolate, often distant and faraway as he did his best to act above it all. Now they were a solid earthy color, sharpened and observant, and currently brimming with a barely contained fury. His demeanor had changed just as much. His body language had hardened from cool indifference to a standoffishness that bordered on prickly. Gone was the Naota that would just sluff off incoming insult or tease, this one was willing to bare its fangs and bite back. He really had, and was still, growing up. Still…she wasn't about to grovel because he'd cultivated some peach fuzz.

"Whaddyah want from me? To say I'm sorry? To come crawling on my hands and knees to beg your forgiveness? Hate to break it to you Bub, but you're gonna see snowballs in Hell before that ever happens." She snarled back, pulling her lips into a smile that flashed her canines. "In fact, I couldn't care less about this rock you call a planet. Furthermore…"

"Whoa! Hey! What the hell?!" She had snaked her legs around his, then snapped them together and pulled back. Rather than be dragged under the table, he let go of her scarf and managed to cling onto the table's edge. But it was all he could do, awkwardly holding himself there until his arms gave out.

"Furthermore, if you had just stayed out of my way, we both could be sittin' pretty right now. But you just had to absorb Atomsk instead; and you call me selfish?"

"That's bullshit." He worked out, growing red in the face. "If I had slipped up just once, been just a split second slow with one of my blocks, you'd have killed me; and you know it."

'Well, aren't you just the world's greatest detective?' She thought, giving his legs a subtle tug. He was right, of course, as usual. Maybe she hadn't been trying to kill him outright, but if it had meant she could have gotten Atomsk…well…

"Oh, untwist your panties Nao'. I'm not here for you, this's just an accident you being in this town. Stay outta my way and you'll have no trouble from me."

"What a relief! I'll just go sit on my porch, have a beer and take it easy!" His voice dripped with sarcasm, spilling it onto the table as he steadied his grip. "Haruko Haruhara, disavowed from the G.S.P.B., creator of an N.O. channel in my head, and co-conspirator to destroy my planet, is in town, but I shouldn't worry! Life'll be just peaches and friggin' cream. You know what? Bite me!"

"That's it, you insolent little…!" She was halfway across the table, hands outstretched to pound some respect into him for this insubordination. Inches from his throat, she froze upon hearing a very distinctive sound. A small, metallic _Clink!_ Body still statuesque, her eyes swiveled to the bracelet strapped to her left wrist. The oversized chain link hung lifelessly from its bracket, then… _Clink! Click-Clack!_ It sprang to life, rattling like it was trying to break free, then finally pointed straight at Naota's head. "Oh no. You can't be serious."

. . .

"You did _what?!_ " George's eyes popped wider than his glasses and the pitch of his voice verged on breaking. He was never good at sounding intimidating with a raised voice, but I knew he was plenty upset.

"Now George, you promised you wouldn't be angry." He did, pinky swear and all. "But this tone you're using sounds distinctly angry, and quite frankly, I don't care for it."

"Oh, I'm not angry." He sat down on his truck's tailgate, looking completely flustered. "I'm just trying to figure out what was going through your head when you hired someone on the Galaxy's most wanted list."

"He already explained that." Tommy said, opening up his tobacco tin. "To her under our observations…ha-ooommmmm…huuaaaaaccckk!...P-too!" Tommy paused to dip, plug, chew and spit. We're ah charmin' bunch, ain't we? "Keep your friends close and your enemies closer. I think you did the best you could under the conditions."

"Rnnnn…alright. I'll spot you that." George relented after some internal wrestling. "However, that doesn't mean I'm pleased with your actions either."

"I didn't expect a promotion, but not being coal-spoon duty's enough for me."

"Hmmph. That's still not off the table. While we're on the subject of Haruko, where is she now?"

"Wherever Naota's at. Which is…" I pulled out my phone and opened up the tracker program on it, using my thumbprint to access it. "Wherever his work phone shall go, we shall know." As you have probably guessed, we cannot be with those in our custody one hundred percent of the time. Occasionally we get called away and they have their own lives too; we're Overwatch agents, not helicopter parents. And then there's the chance that some defecation could hit an oscillation and when things get that screwy, it's nice to at least know where the person you're supposed to be looking after is. The phone I'd given Naota was a flip phone with the best basic talk, text and camera package that the early 2,000's had to offer; complete with an aftermarket RFID chip.

Every few minutes, a cell phone sends out a signal to search for nearby towers. This is to keep its connection updated, so calls can come in and be made. The RFID chip attaches an electronic signature to that signal that my phone, or any of our properly equipped scanners, can pick up. The more towers Naota's phone links up to, the better the program can narrow his location. It's a great system if you're in an urban area, but if you're in say…Montana, that 'accurate within three feet' dot turns into a two-mile across circle with a note that says 'Fuck if I know, good luck bro.'  
"Looks like…he's…" Zoom in, zoom in…loading, loading. Literally out of this world technology and I still get buffering notices. Some things never change. "At Hi-Way Pizza, or at least his phone is."

"That's a relief." George sighed. "One less worry."

"Speaking of worries…" Tommy prompted. He was ready to go home and to bed.

"Oh, yes. Before I forget, a few things." George closed his eyes to think and mentally arrange his ever growing to-do list. "First, Tommy; call Shifty and tell him his vacation's over. We've got a Man in Black on the loose in our turf."

"But isn't Shifty off planet?" I asked, trying to figure out how long it would take Shifty to throw off whatever hangover he had and make his way homeward.

"Yes, which's all the more reason to call him now. Second, for both of you. Start looking into the Kauffmans. You both know them, their hangouts and characteristics, and their friends with shiny badges, blue-grey shirts, and brown shirts too." That'd be the state police and sheriff department respectively, if you don't know your law enforcement uniforms. "Figure out if they're in cahoots with M-M, and how deep down that rabbit hole they've gone."

"We also need to get a look inside Romans." Tommy added. "I'd love to see what they've been doing in there with all that brand new equipment they've acquired."

"Good idea, add it to the list. Obviously, our standing order of looking for Atomsk still applies…"

"If we're lucky, Haruko'll do that for us." I felt purdy proud for a moment having thought of that. See, my idea to hire her wasn't a total misfire. At least at that exact moment, but I'm getting ahead of myself.

"Yeah, 'bout that." Uh-oh. I didn't like the sound of that. "Don't think you're off the hook. It was a good decision, but you still have brought a known enemy into our comfort zone, despite direct orders to the contrary." George reminded.

"Yeah…I know. Should've called for backup…rang D.C. or something." I admitted, wondering why that hadn' been my immediate go-to option.

"Exactly. Now decisions, good or bad, have consequences, and this one's no exception. So, bearing that in mind…" Oh shit, here it comes. "If Haruko becomes a liability, a hindrance, turns against us, is even a nuisance, she will be _your_ mess to clean up. Not mine, Josh, Johnny, or Mike. Not Shifty. And…"

"Oh, me too?" Tommy looked mighty put out to be included in the 'don't help Rig because he half-disobeyed direct orders and has to conduct his own damage control' club. "Well sorry Rig buddy, yer on yer own then I guess."

"I was gonna say Naota isn't allowed to interfere, but yes, you too." George crossed two names off the list. "Are we all clear, everyone understand everything? Kauffman's are to be handled by the book. Thomas, your improv will not be appreciated."

"Yeah, yeah, I gotcha. No playin' by ear, no flyin' by the seat of my pants, no havin' fun…" Tommy griped, but smiled as he did. We were just about to head back, done for the night. Then my phone started to ring.

"Greetin's an' salutations, Rig Carson's phone."

"Rig, uhhh…where are you?" Not where the action was at, judgin' by the sounds of panic Jerry's voice was making. If the owner of Hi-Way Pizza was callin' _ME_ in a time of crisis, all hope must've been lost a _looonnnnnggg_ time ago.

"Out at Midstate, what's up?"

"You need to get over here before someone calls the cops. That Naota…"

"What could _Naota_ possibly have done?"

"It ain't just him. He an' his…woman, girlfriend, lover, whatever…they're just raisin' all kinds of hell; makin' a damn mess outta my parking lot too." Jerry explained as someone in the background yelled and a massive amount of somethings clattered and smashed on the floor.

"Okay, don' have an aneurism, I'm sure it ain' that bad…" _Clink._ What was that? _Clink-click!_ Oh no. _Click! Click, clink!_ Please no. I'm beggin' you…God? Budahh? Allah, Shiva…Spaghetti Monster? _Cling! Ching-a-ling!_ Tommy pulled his wallet from his pocket and worked the chain from it, letting that loose end go free. It straightened out into a solid line, tugging on its anchor on his belt. The teardrop shaped onxy jewel on George's ring began to rotate like a compass needle before settling on a final heading; the pointed end giving direction. I looked down at my left hip to see my Dad's carabiner trying to wriggle itself free of its bracket, then snap tightly against it, holding horizontally, and aimed westward. From our mountaintop view, we could see the nighttime glow of two little towns we lived between with Osceola Mills slightly south, Philipsburg to the north…and Hi-Way Pizza smack in the middle of them at due west. Well…just…shit.

"Jerry, you still there?"

"Yep!"

"Sit tight. We'll be right over."

. . .

'Haruko…Haruhara. Back on Earth again, lovely.' The Man in Black was rereading his message that had been sent straight from The Head himself. 'Proceed cautiously, of course. Full discretion is at your disposal, beautiful.' He looked up as the bartender arrived with his drink, smiled pleasantly and politely thanked them. He had decided that if there was one positive thing Earth had going for it, that was bourbon; something Medical Mechanica had sorely neglected to take the time to invent on its own. Between sips he continued to read.

'Continue with construction at Romans, crews report excellent progress. They have been busy indeed. Begin lockdown of locals and surrounding area to prevent pushback. Well now, we wouldn't want them to spoil our fun, would we? Last note…' He stopped, his glass on its way to his lips. A smirking grin broke out across his face and he set his glass down. 'In event of A-D failure, eliminate Naota Nandaba by any means _convenient._ Oh what fun, what fun! The planet's getting more exciting by the second!' He tossed back the remainder of his drink, laid a bill on the bar to pay, gathered his briefcase, coat and hat, and left the bar. Outside he paused to take a long breath through his nose. Earth…it had a deep, rich, organic smell to it, filled with the scents of its plants, soils and rain. To him, used to the industry of Medical Mechanica, the rawness of that smell was almost enough to make his head swim.

'Mmm…such a perfectly ripe planet, ready to be plucked. It will make for a fine harvest. But business first; I believe it's time.' He reached into his waistcoat and withdrew a large pocket watch with multiple faces. Some had several hands, there were multi colored orbs circling around the main face's edge, glowing luminescent in the summer eve dark, all centered on another face the size of a silver dollar. It contained a single hand, currently spinning round and round at a dizzying speed. It finally slowed and settled on a heading, north. After consulting it and the other faces, he closed the watch and replaced it in his waistcoat.

'The Assassin Division, punctual as always. Let's go see what they've brought to the party. This'll be their last chance, so I'm sure it will be a real treat.' The Man in Black began to walk north, headed for Philipsburg with his coat over his left arm, fedora atop his head and briefcase grasped firmly in his right hand. 'And even better still, how will young Mister Naota Nandaba react? Oh, I'm sure he'll put on an excellent show!'

. . .

* * *

I had debated how to introduce The Man in Black's inner monologue, if I were to do it at all. Would it better for him to remain totally mysterious and unknown, or should I give him maybe just a touch of color? Hey, bourbon has that rich brown color, so that'll do, I think. Haruko and Naota's, date, for lack of a better word, didn't go well, and seemed to be taking an impossibly worse turn when we left them. I don't think it a huge stretch of imagination that Naota would be harboring some resentment at Haruko, he did love her after all, and seeing her back again with all her crassness and complete lack of tact might be enough to make him lose some of his usual cool. That or maybe it was the Italian spices he put on his pizza? Just some food for thought. That's all out of me for now, so until next time, read on, review, PM, discuss, tell your friends, spread the FLCL love, and stay tuned! Thank you again!


	6. Chapter 6

Welllll...look who's alive! That's what my roommate says when I finally wake up on the weekends. I feel the same way posting this new chapter as it has been quite a while since the last one; and I wouldn't blame you, dear reader, if you wondered if I had been hit by a truck or something. But I haven't, just have been extremely busy at work, 50 hour minimum weeks, and flight lessons on the weekends. In sacrificing an hour a night though, I was finally able to find time for writing down the latest installment of the fight between our heroes and the shadowy foes of Medical Mechanica. I did a lot of fiddling with this one, trying to get it juusssst the way I wanted. Hopefully you'll enjoy it! Enough of me, you've waited too long, read on!

* * *

. . .

He really should've known better. Letting his temper get away from him like that, especially in the middle of a crowded Hi-Way…definitely not the coolest thing to do. But once he'd gotten started, there was no stopping himself. Four angry, bitter and resentful years' worth of buried hurt erupted all at once. The hardened and calloused over scar across his heart had burst at the seam, pouring across the table, sloshing onto the floor and drawing the attention of everyone in earshot with its ugly, sloppy mess. She just irked him to no end by how little she cared about the consequences of her actions and the people she'd hurt. It wasn't so much her actual deeds, but the lack of remorse that angered him the most. Even still, he should've known better, because Naota knew fully good 'n' well what happened when he worked himself into a state of severe emotional distress.

"Oh no." Haruko said, her bracelet's chain link madly rattling before aiming at him. "You can't be serious."

"Oh shit. Oh shiii..HAaaaa-ooOOuuuchhh!" He let go of the table and fell to the floor, untangled his feet from hers and started to crawl. The door. He had to get outside. 'Not in here, not with so many people around…' He managed to stand, both hands firmly clasped on his head. Everyone had stopped eating and now watched him, wondering just what the hell was going on. With his vision swimming, he made it to the door and shoved it open with his shoulder. Now the pressure was building, that long needle stabbing straight through his mind.

'No! Not again! Stay…out…of…my…HEAD!' His mental order echoed around his skull, banging loudly off the sides. And, for a moment, the pain and pressure receded. It didn't go fully away, but it did back down. In what was becoming his worst headache, he tried to drown out the force, shoving it to the back of his mind by focusing on something, anything else; flooding his mind's eye with memories, thoughts, wild emotion. He was aware of someone yelling, calling his name. His eyes snapped open. He'd made it to the middle of the parking lot, at least he was outside. Then he saw her. Haruko's face was wracked with worry, concern written all over it, and that double-necked guitar was off her back and in her hands.

"Naota, are you okay?" She asked, in the most genuine, caring fashion he'd ever heard her use. With that, he lost concentration.

'Here we go again.' He thought as the Medical Mechanica bot on the other side broke through. It grew first as an extension of his head, then morphed into its own manifestation before breaking their connection with a shoving jolt. Dizzy, dazed and his ears ringing, he managed to not get shoved over and turned around to see what the latest attempt on his life looked like. He immediately wished he'd just ran instead.

It wasn't as tall as the Industrial Heavy-Hitter, only about seven feet, but much wider across. The first thing it reminded him of was a scorpion with claws, six legs, tail, stinger and all. This beefed up bug had been given an additional set of pincers, bringing the total to four. Each claw was a heavy, serrated blade a hand tall and six feet long. It was missing an obvious head and had instead a rounded mound with six black, whirring as they focused, soulless eyes in two rows of three; recessed into reinforced sockets. The head and body were both sheathed in overlapping armor plate, even along the length of its tail that towered to twelve feet. Then, to top it all off, the robot had been painted in a haphazard series of angles, neon green, black and red in color; making it nigh impossible to tell which parts of it were moving where.

 _Schwick!...Schlack!...Tick-tack!...Schliinnngg…Clack!...Tick-tack!_ It snapped its blades together, shears sharp and strong enough to sever arm thick steel cable. The bot's six legs ended in slender, pointed tips that would pierce the asphalt with sharp snaps at each step forward.

"Haruko…" He stepped backwards to her side. "Would you be willing to put that guitar to work?"

"Well…I would maybe, possibly, consider, lending you half, but _somebody…_ " She rolled her eyes over at him, giving a snarl and smile at the same time. "Fused them together! But I didn't know your portal was still active! That'd be something to be up-front with next time!"

"Oh excuse me for not mentioning it, must've slipped my mind!" He snapped. How could she not have known? Was she really that scatterbrained, or did she just not care? Either way, he'd have to find out later, there was a bigger issue at hand. Normally and four years removed, he would've let Haruko handle the bot herself. But with as tired and worn out looking as she was, and an urge to put some of the techniques Rig had taught him to use, he wasn't going to be a mere bystander. He cast around for a weapon, and found one in a three foot piece of steel rebar in the truck bed next to him. Armed, insufficiently he felt, he turned to Haruko to cobble together some semblance of a plan.

"Okay, so, how about I go right, and you…"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, whatever, just stay outta the way!" She ordered, waving him back with a dismissive hand. "I'll take care of it, try to take notes." As she bragged, the bot advanced within striking range of its claws and stopped, seeming to wait for them to make the first move. While they stared each other down, the loudspeaker mounted to the front of Hi-Way, for those eating on the veranda, continued to play the latest of Beau's Beats Buffet; giving the standoff its own soundtrack.

 _Are you ready Steve?!_

 _Uh-huh…_

 _Andy?!_

 _Yeaahhh…_

 _Mick?!_

 _Okay…_

 _Alright fellahs…LET'S GOOOOOO!_

"Wow-how! Let's jam!" Haruko cried, taking a running leap towards the robot, guitar held above her head. The robot, despite its stubby appearance and short legs, scuttled clear and Haruko's swing missed. She did however, succeed in smashing a two foot deep, three foot across, crater in the parking lot, sending chips of asphalt flying through car windows, setting off a dozen alarms. Ignoring her, the bot started for Naota, clasping the halves of its pincers together into long, pointed swords. _SCH-THWUNK!_ The first set of pincers stabbed through the asphalt and between his feet. He'd leaped back just in time to avoid being cleaved in half, only seeing a green, black and red blur headed for his chest. Before he could locate a weak point to attack, the bot withdrew its first claw and attacked with the second, following up with a third and fourth, sending him in a series of bounds and leaps just to stay out of the way, never mind fighting back. At a piercing war-cry, the bot withdrew its claws and retreated to fend off another high-flying attack from Haruko.

 _Oh, it's been gettin' so hard, livin' with the things you do to me…_

 _My dreams are getting' so strange, I'd like to tell you everything I see…_

 _OH! I see a man in the back, as a matter of fact! His eyes are as red as the sun!_

 _And the Girl in The Corner, let no one ignore her, 'cause she thinks she's the passionate one!_

"Hey! Will you slow down?!" He yelled as Haruko flouted just outside the bot's reach, dodging another stab, leaping into the air, dodging more stabs, using the flat edge of that pincer's blade as a springboard, spinning in a forward roll, still in the air, swinging her guitar in a near miss at the bot's head, launching off the end unit of its tail, to finally land on the roof of a minivan; then jump away again just as spritely as a pincer blade dissected the minivan at its center. "We need a plan, we can't just keep rushing it!"

"Sorry! Little too busy to think right now!" She called, hand-springing backwards, scarcely ahead of the bot's stinger. With Haruko sufficiently distanced, it turned to him again.

 _Ohhh yeah! It was like lightning! Everybody was frightening!_

 _And the music was soothing, and they all started grooving!_

 _And The Man in The Back said 'Everyone attack!' and it turned into a Ballroom Blitz!_

 _And the Girl in The Corner said 'Boy I wanna warn you, it'll turn into a Ballroom Blitz!'_

 _Ballroom Blitz! Ballroom Blitz! Ballroom Blitz!...*_

Chips of asphalt flew, striking his upheld arms and unshielded face with sharp, ragged edges, all while the thuds of the bot's blades striking pavement shook his boots and the swish of those toothy swords filled his ears. Using the rebar, he was able to fend off a few of the closer attacks, only just deflecting or redirecting the incoming blades. As he backed up, he tripped over a concrete parking spot bollard, landing hard in the grass on his back. Another yippie-kay-ay! Yell from Haruko distracted the robot long enough for him to roll behind another car and catch his breath.

'Okay…okay…oh shit…oh shit…okay…okay, think…' His breathing somewhat restored to normal, he took stock of his resources and tried to figure out how best to apply them. He looked down to discover he was bleeding what appeared an awful lot, due to cuts from asphalt shards and a slash on his arm from a too close robot blade. All he had, immediately available, was the piece of rebar in his hands…and that was about it. Judging from the yelling and swearing, and crash of guitar on metal, Haruko was still in the fight, but wasn't making much headway either. 'What to do…?' Then he remembered his work cell phone.

. . .

If I'd had the presence of mind to keep track, I'm pudry darn sure I broke any and all records, including my own, of getting from Midstate, through Black Moshannon, and to Philipsburg. Trees, speed suggestion signs, mailboxes, that odd possum that didn't get outta the way in time, may the poor bastard rest in peace, all flicked by in a blur as I practically flew from hill to hill; at times scarcely touching the ground. There wasn't time for all of us to stop at home, so I was being sent out as the first responder with Tommy and George to act as reinforcements once they'd swung by the house. I'd just made it out of Black Moshannon Forest and was coming to the city limits when my phone started buzzing. Already I had put on the Bluetooth I keep in one of the Ought-Too's toolboxes, so I tapped my ear and answered.

"Greetings, this's Rig Carson Enterprises, Central campus. How can I help you this evening?"

"Rig? RIG?! Where the hell are you?!" Naota, if you yell loud enough, I won't need the phone, my cousins in MICHIGAN will hear you!

"Out 'n' about. 'Sup?"

"Uh, well, remember that red robot that came out of my head at Dahl's, and you and your cousin beat the daylights out of?"

"Rings ah bell." And how could I forget it, when it had nearly popped my head like a grape?

"Well, it has a friend, a green, red and black friend that kinda looks like a giant scorpion on 'roids."

"Oh…kay." Well, fuck. Fuckity-fuck-fuck. M-M wasn't screwin' around this time. Tommy the Fortune Teller's predictions had come true: Medical Mechanica had sent a dedicated assassin unit. Just haaaaad to be right, didn't you Tommy? "I'll…I'll be right there, annnn'…see what can be done 'bout it. What's it got for fightin' utensils?"

"Double set of pincers with swords for claws and a stinger from Hell that'll go through an engine block." He paused as there was a series of yells, something metallic smashing and the tinkle of broken glass. "And a nasty attitude to boot. Haruko's doing her best, but we could use some help; even if you can just distract it for her."

"Gotcha. I'm on the way, Tommy an' George'll be right 'hind me, an' the guys from the shop too! So just stay alive for…eh, five minutes?"

"Five minutes? That's actually a long time you know…"

"Just keep calm and carry on."

"I'll see what I can do." He compromised and hung up, leaving a dial tone in my ear. Keep calm Nao'. Actually, as I thought 'bout it, he'd actually sounded decently calm, considering. He'd given a good description of the enemy and wasn't screaming, crying or blubbering…perhaps having robots come out of your head does that to someone? No time to think about it, have to pick up some weaponry of my own…

. . .

'Rig and Tommy are on the way…alright.' He thought, then realized it had gotten too quiet. 'What happened to all the racket?'

"Whatcha doing back here?" Haruko swung herself over the trunk of the car Naota was hiding behind, and plopped down beside him in the grass. Her face was flushed with hot, pumped-up blood, her eyes wide and alert, chest rising and falling with increased breath. She'd somehow changed from earlier, life flooding back into her tired body to give her worn down form a much needed boost.

'Adrenaline's an amazing thing.' He thought, looking at a Haruko swelled up with bloodlust.

"Hangin' out, trying to not get shish-kabobed." He answered, wondering…if Haruko was next to him…where was the bot? "You?"

"Same. Hey…uhm, are you gonna sit there all night…or are you gonna help out?"

"Oh, is that bot giving _you_ , the Mighty Haruko, a hard time?"

"It's attacks kinda suck because it's so slow, but its defense is just stupid good. I need you to distract it, smack it 'round some with that metal stick or something."

"That's your plan? Having me smack it around with a metal stick? What all did they teach you in the G.S.P.B.?"

"Well then, what's YOUR plan, smart ass?" He cast around for a withering comeback, still wondering where the bot was. He received his answer in a loud and dangerously close _SCH-THUH-LUNK!_ A set of pincers, clasped together as a single blade, had stabbed through the car's opposite side and breached through on their side. Ah-ha, the bot was right behind them, of course it was, where else would it be?

"So, distract it huh? I'll go left, you go right."

"Sounds legit, let's go!" Haruko flashed one of her canine filled grins and rolled to her right. He stood, getting clear of the car just in time. The bot opened its pincer, ripping the car in half from the middle out, and tossed the pieces across the lot. Hissing and spitting globs of steaming dark green oil, the bot backed off, using its claws to fend off another barrage of swings from Haruko. So much for waiting for him to distract it…

'Weak point, gotta be a weak point somewhere!' His vision flicked from leg, to head, to claws, to head, to stinger, seeing only layers of overlapping steel armor. Then the bot turned, showing him its right side and where the joints where the legs joined its body. In order for its legs to have any range of motion, the builders had left off a covering over the connection; showing a slight glimmer of internal workings, wires, tubes and lights. He waited for Haruko to fling herself off the hood of a truck, then ran forward to ram the pointed end of the rebar a good foot deep into the socket of the bot's front right leg.

'I, I hit it!' He thought as oil began spluttering from the socket and the rebar vibrated in his hands. 'Holy shit, that was way too easy! Wait a minute…' With a screeching roar, the bot whirled in place, the stuck rebar slamming him in his stomach in a lung-emptying blow. The rebar pulled free and went with him as his feet left the ground. Wondering how far he would fly, he was answered by landing back-first in a pick-up truck's windshield. The glass didn't shatter, but fractured into a razor filled spiderweb. Still very much NOT dead, but VERY much angry, the bot turned to him, rearing up on its back legs, and stabbed down with all eight of its blades. The truck was turned into a metal pincushion, and Naota a shade paler as he crawled under the bot; having rolled off the truck's hood a hair of a second before impact.

With its serrated claws stuck in the truck's engine, Haruko saw her chance and, with her typical impulsiveness, seized it. Another attack from on high, she brought the double-necked guitar smashing down onto the top left set of pincers, right at the shoulder. A shower of sparks erupted, a crunch of crumpled metal and a wobbling chord of electric notes rang out as the arm separated from its host.

"Alright, one down, three to go!" Haruko's feet had scarcely touched ground and she was off again. "Here I come, ready or not!" She waded into the fight, trying to slam her guitar's body against any relatively solid part of the bot she could reach, stopped by its three still functioning sets of blades. Naota staggered to his feet, the back of his right shoulder beginning to sear with a stabbing pain; he knew he had to have shards of glass from that windshield in him. The bot managed to push Haruko back and went for him again, attacking with its two right sets of claws and using the third for defense. He couldn't find an opening, the claws moved too fast for him to find any sort of pattern. All he could do was hold them off, hoping Haruko could take advantage of its focus on him. But his shoulder was starting to ache furiously from the jarring blows and he could feel blood starting to run down his back, then the bot smashed the rebar from his hands; sending it spinning into a car's door. This was it, he was unarmed and in the middle of the lot with no car remotely nearby to dive behind. The bot raised its claws…

"Don't just stand there! Move your ass!" Haruko commanded, stepping between him and the incoming sweep attack from the flat side of the bot's pincer. Both of them were lifted off their feet, but she took the brunt of the blow, getting hit square on her lower back so hard he would have sworn he heard a vertebrae or two pop. Tangled they flipped, rolled and flopped to a stop next to Hi-Way's front door. Standing proved painful, but possible and both rolled their heads around and stretched their backs, feeling bruised bone crackle and pop back in place.

"Thank…thank you for that…" He managed to pant, looking around for his piece of rebar and spotted it jutting out from a Prius's door at a ninety degree angle. "Are you okay?"

"Pffft, me hurt? And I thought you knew me better than that. Let's pay it back, double!" She shrugged off whatever injury she may have felt and ran forward again, this time the guitar held low. She was going for the lower of the left arms, intent on uppercutting the limb right off.

"Above you!" He warned as she recklessly got sucked into tunnel vision, totally focused on her target. Haruko looked up to avoid being run through with the stinger, but still was clubbed sideways with the rest of the tail behind it. Her body was tossed off to the side, landing in Hi-Way's dumpster. Her guitar, however, clattered to the pavement; equally between Naota and the bot…and they both saw it at the same time.

. . .

"Thanks for choosing Shantz Hardware, have a good night!" Another happy customer, another sale for Mr. Shantz and his hardware store. It was getting late, time to start closing up shop. In the late July heat, he'd propped open the front doors with cinder blocks, hoping to tempt in the breeze. He looked away from the doors, about to call for the service clerk taking inventory in the fastener section. Before he could get a word out, there arrived the sound of a _very_ loud engine, through the front doors.

"'Scuse me, sorry, pardon, comin' through!" A young man on an orange and black dirk bike rode straight though the front doors, made a turn at the counter and headed for plumbing.

"What on God's green Earth?!" Mr. Shantz looked around the counter's corner, only to see an orange and black blur headed back for him. "Jeff Carson?! What's in your head boy?! Hey, hey…HEY! You gotta pay for that!" The youngest Carson had snagged a thirty inch adjustable wrench off the rack and had lain it across his handlebars.

"Sorry Mr. Shantz! No time! Send us an invoice!" Rig yelled as he sped out the same doors he'd came in, leaving with a four hundred dollar wrench, and a burnout tire track on the floor.

"Ohhhh…that kid." Mr. Shantz sighed, watching Rig's taillight disappear southward down North Centre street. "What mischief's he gotten himself into _this_ time?"

. . .

"God…dammit." Naota swore, his eyes flicking up and down between the robot and the guitar. The guitar was about thirty feet away and the bot thirty more beyond that. Oil was beginning to pool by its right leg and under its left shoulder, the crushed stump occasionally giving off a burst of sparks.

'What's it waiting for?' he wondered, watching that double row of eyes blink in and out of focus, watching all of its surroundings at once. 'It's going to bleed out of oil if it just stands there…' As he hoped he could just wait out the robot until its reservoir ran dry, there was a nails on the chalkboard scratching and the bot's leaks of oil ceased. Squinting in the fading light, he could see the bot had shifted its armor plating, scabbing over its wounds, even detaching the remnants of its crippled arm. 'Oh, so it can fix itself. Isn't that just great?'

 _K-THUD!...Tack-tack!...K-THUD!...Tack-tack-tack!_ The bot advanced, stabbing down with one of its pincers as a cane, favoring its right side; its remaining legs clacking more heavily on the parking lot as they took up the weight. A pair of pincers shot out with the tips held just far apart as if it were going to pluck up the guitar for itself, hey, wait a secon', SHIT! Naota took six foot long bounds forward, snatching the guitar before the bot's claws could. Expecting an immediate follow up strike, he flattened out and slid across the lot, painfully stopping too early directly underneath the bot's body. It seemed to have lost track of him for a moment, and he realized he was in perfect position for a sucker punch. Hey, all's fair when fighting killer robots from another planet.

'Right there outta do some damage.' He aimed for the middle leg on the bot's right side and swung. A pang of notes rang out as the guitar's strings vibrated and the bot's leg shattered along its length, all the way up to the joint. It sprang backwards, knocking over a row of motorcycles and landed on another car. Dragging its crippled leg, it stumbled towards him, stinger swaying in its greatly altered stride.

"OOoooooohhhhh…fuck me!" Haruko was awake and furious, crawling out of the dumpster. Crusts, buffalo and marinara sauce, and old flour stuck to her in a slimy, surprisingly aromatic, mess. "Is that… _THING_ , dead yet?"

"Nope, still here despite my best efforts." He answered, stepping to the side as Haruko stomped by, gently moving him out of her way with a hand on his shoulder. If prompted, he would have sworn he saw steam jetting from her ears as her pride and temper flared. "Hey, are you…okay?" A slight whistling seemed to be coming from her as she boiled over. Without an answer, she sprinted headlong at the bot, picking up her own piece of rebar, and screamed bloody murder the entire way. He took off after her in a vain attempt to keep pace. She reached the bot first, dodging the first set of pincers, deflecting the second and knocking aside the third. Her way clear, she stepped inside the bot's claws, right in front of a mouth filled with needles, crushing gears and blades, all snapping and gnashing against each other, and with a guttural shout, rammed the rebar three feet down the robot's gullet.

"Throw me in the trash will yah?!" Haruko taunted, pushing the bar further, following the bot as it stumbled and tripped backwards to get away from the pink-haired psycho rearranging its innards. "Well I'm gonna throw you in the junkyard, you Medical Mechanica piece of scrap!" With a rattling clang, she withdrew the rebar and was rewarded with a bot-sized upchuck of oil and broken parts. Covered with the green slop, she stumbled away from the bot, trying to clear her eyes. Naota stepped forward, grabbing her by the back of her jacket and dragged her out of the bot's reach.

"Good hit, I think you really fucked up its insides." He congratulated as the bot tucked itself into a corner of the lot. A high fence was on its left and the convenience store on its right, securing its flanks. It leaned heavily against the wall, its legs starting to lose pressure to maintain its posture. But its claws and stinger still worked, snapping and stabbing at them whenever they got too close.

"I gotta say, I'm a little impressed." Haruko shook a strand of oiled hair out of her eyes. "I took a quick break and you managed to not get killed…not bad. Now gimme that guitar back…" She held out her hand, fingers waggling in anticipation.

"I dunno, I've grown kinda fond of it." He stepped sideways, watching both Haruko and the bot. "And, half of it technically is mine after all."

"Are you _really_ going to do this, right here, right now?!" She rolled her eyes back almost to white in her annoyance. "Just give it NOW!"

"Oh what're you gonna do?"

"I got a couple of ideas…"

"Uh-huh, sure you do…" He trailed off, eyes drawn upwards to the roof of the convenience store. "What the hell? Rig?" It was Rig, tip-toeing along the store's roof, unafraid of heights as always, but now with a massive wrench on his shoulder. He made eye contact with Naota and Haruko, smiled and put a finger to his lips. Taking the wrench in both hands, Rig steadied himself, took a few quick breaths, jumped…and missed.

To be fair, the robot's eyes had swiveled to look behind and above it, just for the express purpose of checking its six. Just in time to spot and avoid the wrench-wielding Pennsylvanian, letting a foot deep furrow be gouged into the earth instead of its own head. Faced with now three foes, the bot readied itself to gallantly resist incoming attack; blades and stinger at the ready.

"You MISSED?!" Haruko was torn between disbelief and laughter. "How in the Hell do you miss _that_?!" She pointed with her rebar at the bot, currently trying to pierce Rig's sternum with its stinger.

"Well, forgive me! Forgive me for not, gahhh!" Rig had to roll sideways to avoid dismemberment. "For not being some kind of expert! This's only the secon' one I've fought!"

"Hang on…" Haruko stopped to stare at Rig for a full second. "Did you say…"

"Not now Haruko!" Naota ordered, batting back a set of pincers, breaking off one of the blades with a heavy swing. The severed chunk spun sideways, end over end, to embed itself in the convenience store's wall. "Let's kill this fucking thing first and worry 'bout that later!"

"No, I wanna know what he meant by second! What haven't you told me?!"

"You've got some nerve, you of all people demanding answers! It's not important right now!"

"Oh I think it is…"

"Will both of yah jest shaddap!" Both clapped their traps. Rig, with his audience's attention captured, got them back on track, first by pointing to Haruko. "Mizz Haruko. Go for its eyes, use the rebar's length to poke 'em out. Nao'. You're first with that…guitar, I'll be right 'hind you. Go for its other left arm!" With a strategy in place, the trio moved with purpose. Naota was up front, brushing aside the stinger and tail with the guitar's body as he headed for its last left arm. The stinger slammed two feet deep into the pavement and stuck fast, its tip bent and dulled from missed strikes. Rig took advantage of his position to bring the pointed side of the wrench's head down on the tail's spine, separating the stinger unit from the tail, save for a few stubborn wires. Naota meanwhile smashed his way through a set of chipped blades, then reversed his swing to crush the shoulder joint of the bot's remaining left arm, jamming it in place.

"Now punch his lights out Mizz Haruko!" Rig ordered and Haruko began a series of jabs, knocking out the protective shells of the bot's eyes one by one. Blinded save for one eye, the bot tucked its remaining blades and the stump of its tail over its body, trying to protect its vision; it's most vital sense. But all of its thrashing had reopened old wounds and it lost pressure to even more, slumping into a puddle of its own oil.

"Mizz Haruko, left side, Naota center, aim for it's noggin'!" Rig yelled as he ran up on of the bot's right arms, beginning to swing his wrench above his head for a killing blow. "All together now, three, two, _ONE!_ " **_KRR-TH-RUNNCHHH!_** Both Rig and Naota swung while Haruko stabbed; two parts crushing and one part piercing the bot's head and central control unit. With all its reservoirs bled bone dry, vision blacked and its brain shattered, the bot collapsed on itself with a last, pathetic burble of hydraulic drool spitting from its mouth, and finally had the damned common decency to die.

. . .

Wheeeeewww…Well, bein' completely forward with y'all, that went _'xceptionally_ better than I thought it would. No one got killed, the bot was dead, and there (so far) seemed to be minimal eyewitnesses. All three little boxes on my checklist for an encounter with an M-M robot were checked. All that was left was to get it outta the parking lot and our butts home before the cops showed up.

"Alrighty you two." I leaned on my newest wrench, t'was a fine one at that, and looked 'tween Naota and Haruko. "What…in the blazes hell…happened?"

"'Kay, see, it was like this…" Naota started but hardly got a few syllables in edgewise.

"Uhhhgg…nope! You're telling it wrong!" Haruko interrupted, putting her hand over his mouth to tell her own version of the tale. "We had a bit of a, well, a lover's quarrel in the restaurant…"

"Love's quarrel my ass!"

"Deny, deny…deny away…"

"You bet I will! I ask a few simple questions and you…"

"Got tired of your whining, like I am right now…" She needled, yawning with an obvious snark. "Such a drama queen you are…"

"If it's drama you want, you bring enough for the whole planet…"

"HEY!" I'd let the bickering go on much longer than I ought to. It'd been a day of stress, high blood pressure, family problems, I was out of tobacco and out of fucks to give. "That's enough, fuckin' quit it! Bitch later, answer now." I pointed with my wrench at Naota. "What happened, speak."

"…Haruko and I were arguing about, stuff. I let my temper get away from me, and another M-M bot came out. We were fighting it and were doing okay. You showed up to help finish it off, and now we're here."

"Thank you. Mizz Haruko, anything to add?"

"Uhhh…nope. Yep, that 'bout sums it up." She corroborated, preoccupied with peeling off stuck on pizza crusts. Looks like someone took a dive in the dumpster. "So what do we do with it?" She nodded back at the bot. "Usually they blow up or something, never had one just lay there."

"I've got that covered, believe it or not. Tommy'll be here any second with a boom truck to pick it up. Then, we can take it home, get its armor off, and do…heh-heh, _unholy_ , things to it." I was eyeballin' the newest addition to G&R's collection; ohhhh…scorpion-bot…we're gonna have allll kinds of fun together. I could already tell just by lookin' at it, this had to be a dedicated Assassin Class. It was too immaculately built, a highly customized, one of a kind piece of walkin', slashin' an' stingin', deadly mechanical art. Which makes killin' 'em and ripping them apart to see its internal clockwork all the more satisfying!

"Sounds great, another specimen for Johnny, Josh and Mike." Naota nodded, watching the bot like he expected it to jump back up again any second; like it had just been taking a quick nap. "They'll really love this one…Oh no you don't!" He took two big steps back, holding that double-necked guitar behind him. As we'd talked and admired M-M's latest unit, Haruko'd been inching closer to Naota, fingers wigglin' as she tried to snatch back that guitar.

"Did I say you could have that?! Give. It. BACK." She growled, taking her own steps towards Naota. This wasn't good, in case you hadn't already figured that out.

"Like hell I will! Half of its mine, half is Atomsk's, and even if neither of those were true, I don't trust you with it!"

"Grrrr…..I….you….mrrrrpph…WHAT?!" Haruko's face started to turn crimson and a vein ticked in her neck as she tried to think of something to say.

"You heard me. Let me put it in simple terms. I trust you with this guitar as much as…the tap water in Flint Michigan."

"I don't even know where that is! Just gimme the damn thing before I take it from you and shove it up your…"

"Naota." This was ending. Now. Not just for Naota's sake, but for mine too. What? Self-preservation is not selfishness. My main, number one, top of the list, job was to protect Naota. If he kept pissing Haruko off, she would most certainly make that job difficult to say the least. And then, I'd have to put six zero-point-three-fifty-seven caliber sized skylights in Mizz Haruko's skull. No ifs, ands or buts about it. The problem with that was two-fold. First, I really didn't want to have to do that in front of Naota; mental trauma would not begin to cover it. Second, with Haruko's physical abilities and complete disregard for the known laws of physics, I seriously doubted I'd be actually able to put any rounds on target anyway. So the only conclusion was for Naota to simmer down and all of us hugging it out and singing Kumbaya…at least for the immediate future. "It's fine. The bot's dead, just chill, and give her the guitar back."

"Are you kidding me? Did you really just…?" The look of betrayal was defined by Naota's face right then.

"I said, its fine." Listen to me man. You're totally, 110% right! But, if you don't listen to me, that wacko in front of you is gonna rip your head off and cram it down your own goddamn throat. So swallow your pride and do us both a favor! "It'll be alright, trust me okay? She fought that bot when she could've cut and run, so cut her just a little slack eh?" Naota looked almost furious for a moment, like he was madder at ME than her. But to my immense relief, he slowly handed the guitar over.

"Thank you!" Haruko snatched it from his fingers and quickly slung it across her back. "I knew you'd come around."

"And don't you be getting' too high-and-mighty Mizzy." I pointed with my wrench to accent my point. "He bought you time to crawl outta the dumpster, all by his lonesome; or do you wanna go back in the dumpster an' rethink your attitude?"

"Whatever." She blew me off like yesterday's news. Now I knew where Naota's bad vibes about her were coming from. If there was anyone that needed a serious attitude adjustment, it was Haruko Haruhara. "When's your cousin or whoever 'sposed to get here? I really don't feel up to walking, my back's killing me…"

"Here he comes." Tommy pulled into the parking lot, weaving through flipped over and smashed cars, the truck's tires crunching over broken glass. He jumped out of the cab with his crowbar in hand; Johnny, Josh and Mike had been riding on the boom truck's flat bed and followed suit. They appeared unarmed, but I knew better. "Yo Tommy! What kept you?"

"We got hung up at…holy fuck!" He'd found the bot. "What in the actual hell is that?!" He ran up to it, pokin' around with his crowbar as if he was making sure it was really real. "Mike, Josh, Johnny! Get ah-load-ah this thing!"

"Duuudddeee…" Josh looked like Christmas, his birthday, the Fourth of July and $0.25 pints at Grizzly's had all come on the same day. "That…is…awwwsome! Naota!" He turned to Naota, eyes popped wide in excitement. "How'd you manage it? Dude, gimme a hug, we're gonna learn so much from this thing!" He actually went and hugged Naota, tellin' him he'd made his year. "Whoa, hey, what's with the blood? Are you alright?"

"Yeah, yeah…totally fine." Naota sluffed off his injuries with a careless sigh. He couldn't see the back of his shirt though, it was covered from collar to tail in a dark stain. If we dicked around much longer, I feared he was going to pass out from blood loss. Time to wrap this up.

"Josh!" Mike and Johnny were looking at the bot's head unit and its rows of eyes. "You gotta see this!" Josh scampered off to take a gander, leaving me, Nao', Haruko and Tommy.

"I'm sure you've got a lot to say…" Tommy started before any of us could get in a 'let me explain'. People, drawn by all the racket, were starting to show up, and with them would come police. In the age of the camera phone, this also had the possibility to end up on youtube, not good either, and Tommy knew it. He'd taken one look around the parking lot, its devastation, and knew we had already stayed too long. "But that's a big ole' hunk of machinery we gotta get outta here, and that's a whole lot of blood on your shirt Naota. We're going home before anyone asks us questions with no good answers. Johnny, Mike, Josh! Wrap it up, chain it up and pick it up! We're leaving!"

"Rog', let's get the hell outta here!" Josh agreed and they began to hook spreader cables up to the bot.

"Sounds like a plan to me." Haruko added, sauntering over to the truck without offering to help. Of course she would agree, that tidy little fortune tacked on her head by G.S.P.B. was good dead or alive. But hey, whatever gets this party moving. We hooked up the bot by a set of hard points on its back, chained it down on the truck's deck, covered it with tarps best we could, and did our finest disappearing act into the evening gloom. I felt really bad for Jerry, what with the damage to his parkin' lot and all. I don't think his insurance agent would believe even half of what happened to it; even if you showed him a video. And speaking of those, at least no one caught this incident on tape; at least, that I knew of. That's a scary thought…

. . .

"Sir? I have to stop recording, the file'll be too big to transfer otherwise."

"That will be fine Mister Kauffman, I have seen enough." The Man in Black checked his pocketwatch, the orbs around the edge of its main face were in motion and the hand in the center face was lazily spinning; having gone berserk minutes before. "We were given more than our money's worth, they put on a magnificent show!"

"But, they killed the robot?" Cody didn't quite understand why The Man in Black seemed so upbeat despite this latest setback. "I thought the whole point was for it to take Naota out?"

"Oh it was, young Mister Kauffman, do not let me be misunderstood." The Man in Black accepted Cody's phone and opened his briefcase, opposite Cody so its contents were hidden from his view. He withdrew a cable from it, plugged that into Cody's phone and placed it on the table they were sitting at; outside the gas station just up the road from Hi-Way. "You see, since the robot has failed, it is now my turn to take the stage."

"Why're you so, I dunno, happy about it though? Seems like a lotta work."

"Allow me to explain. Ahmm…why, do your fellow humans stalk dangerous game, such as the lion, elephant, Cape buffalo, leopard and rhinoceros, of the African continent?"

"For the challenge I guess, because they're so dangerous."

"Exactly!" The Man in Black said, thumping the table in his excitement. It was difficult for Cody to work out his moods, especially with The Man in Black's habit of constantly wearing his sunglasses, and the odd feeling of mental fog and forgetfulness whenever he looked at the Man's face too long. "For the challenge, the thrill. You see, I have been to many planets, seen countless races upon them, and many of them were sooo…boring. Can you imagine why?"

"I don't think so, why?"

"Because they were, by and large, atrocious at being enemies. They folded under their own cowardice, fell upon their own inadequacies or devoured each other in bitter, and foolish, civil conquests that made my work all too easy. When you get to a position in life like mine, merely winning has lost its luster; for I have won many a battle and conquered many a planet. Victory becomes hollow, and more like a chore than anything else."

"So you're bored with your own success? If you win all the time, the game's no fun anymore."

"Precisely. I have been in a rut, hunting the prairie dog equivalent of civilizations, when I myself have been born, bred, and trained to kill lions. So you can imagine what that does to one's morale."

"But now…" Cody was beginning to grasp what The Man in Black was driving at.

"But now, I have what _appears_ to be the makings of a real contest, actually worth my time. I refuse to get my hopes up to have them dashed, but there is potential. Watching that trio fight a metal beast twice their size and immeasurably nastier in disposition, and coming out relatively unscathed, gives me hope. If Naota and his other human friend, are any indication of this planet's fighting ability, you, my friend, and I, will have ourselves a rousing good fight on our hands."

"If this's your idea of a good time, you must have some really weird hobbies." Cody remarked, taking his phone back, the transfer complete. "I mean, I hate the Carsons with all my being, but I don't look forward to actually fighting them when my family is going to move in and take them down. They're a hard bunch, one I totally despise, but I fear too. So why're you so happy about going up against some people that just killed one of your machines with nothing but a wrench, a guitar and a piece of rebar?"

"Oh, how does that saying go?" The Man in Black snapped his briefcase closed. "If…you do what, you love…Ah, I remember now. If you do what you love, you truly never work a day in your life; and I haven't worked a single day since I was born."

. . .

"Ooowwwww…everything hurts…" Naota groaned, adjusting his posture as he sat down on the lower half of his bunk bed. He had gotten out a spare change of clothes for after a shower, but as the soreness settled into his body, he decided it would be best to rest for a moment. The ice pack and wrapping of bandages on his back and right shoulder bulged out, making leaning against the wall feel lopsided and uncomfortable. Then again, everything he did was uncomfortable. Where the piece of rebar had hit him, a band of black, blue and purple bruises, surrounded by yellowed skin and broken vessels, had sprang up. His elbows, knuckles and forearms were skinned raw from sliding and rolling across the asphalt and the chips of pavement that had sliced him in jagged gashes. Rig and Tommy had bandaged him up, sending him straight home when they were done; both surprisingly were well versed on battlefield first aid. The robot's computer was relatively intact, but encrypted despite Josh's best initial efforts. Canti had been recruited to plug in via hardline and try to 'talk' to the scorpion's computer directly. When he and Haruko had left, there had been no progress.

"Me too…" Haruko slouched into the room, her hands pressing on the small of her back. "And I reek of garlic bread…" She dumped her backpack, helmet, goggles, gloves and scarf next to his desk, then gently leaned her guitar in the corner next to his bass. "Hey, is it okay if I use the shower?"

"Straight out, first door at the top of the stairs." He directed, and after grabbing her backpack, she left him alone in his room. "And no, I won't be joining you!"

"Just thought I'd offer…" She'd stuck her head back into the room, and he knew what she was sure to ask. "I'll leave the door unlocked in case you change your tune."

"I'll keep it in mind." Having no other place to go, and Rig nearly laughing himself to tears when Naota had asked Rig if he would take Haruko in, she was going to be staying with him. Naota wasn't sure if it was the best idea, especially since he hadn't asked his Dad or Shingekuni. Kamon was in Penn State until Friday afternoon, and it was currently Tuesday. That meant he had just over two days to either find somewhere else for her to go, a prison on the Moon sounded perfect, or come up with a really good explanation as to why she was there; and he didn't want to even contemplate what Gramps would say if he found out first.

'Always causing trouble…one way or another.' He fumed, looking down the hall at the bathroom door, then leaning back again and closing his eyes to rest them. She really was an enigma. Just over an hour ago, they'd been bickering like cats and dogs, murder in her eyes as he refused to hand over her guitar. And, then…just, a complete one-eighty in her behavior. What could possibly be her angle this time? She didn't need his head to bring out Atomsk; the Pirate King was, to his knowledge anyway, still on the run. And Rig was right, she could've taken off and ran, leaving him to deal with the robot himself. She had even gone as far as putting herself in harm's way to save him from what would have been a killing blow. All considered, it seemed that the only thing he really knew for sure, was that he knew nothing. That fact used to not even enter his thoughts, but now it troubled him deeply. And, speaking of troubling things…

'This…this, bullshit, of M-M trying to kill me all the time's really getting old.' Yes, he had lost his temper, which was completely his fault, but Medical Mechanica sure's hell didn't have to piggyback on that by sending some assassination unit! What was their deal, what was the point _now_ , of trying to off him? Was it because of Haruko showing up? No, that wasn't right, that wouldn't explain the first bot back in June. Maybe it had to do with the portal itself? It was in a way a door, one that maybe they viewed as a security risk? Or it could be part of another plot to take over Earth…a combination of his ideas perhaps? 'Either way, this's gotta stop. I'll ask the guys at work tomorrow and see what they think. Their guesses are probably as good as mine.'

"Ahhhhh! A shower can make you feel reborn!" Haruko had finished in the bathroom. "Hey Naota, where's Mon-chan?" She now waltzed back into the room, towing with her the scent of soap. "I've been here for an hour and haven't been hit on or leered at once. What gives?"

"He's in Penn State, 'bout an hour or so east. Got a job as an assistant editor in chief of a newspaper there."

"Ohhhh…okay. And Shingekuni?" His eyelids were still heavy, and therefore still closed, but he could hear her walking around. It sounded like she was going through his CD collection.

"He's a typical old man. Up at sunrise, in bed by eight, snores like a diesel truck the whole night through."

"Cool, cool…" He heard her flipping pages. "Well, bathroom's open whenever you're ready."

"Duly noted." He had finally gotten comfortable and didn't want to disturb that. Plus, whatever soap Haruko had used smelled incredible. It wasn't anything he, Kamon or Gramps kept in the house, it was soft with a slight tickle on his nose when he breathed it in. He wasn't in any hurry to move, just a few moments longer.

"You asleep?"

"Yes. Fast asleep, counting sheep." He heard her put the CD book down and pad softly across the room. Pressure points on the bed appeared, one on either side of his waist; she was leaning over him. He kept his eyes closed. She was close, he could feel her presence, hear her breath, smell that soap as its scent swirled 'round inside his head.

"You okay? You're not dyin' on me are you?"

"I don't think so. Why?"

"Just checking."

"Well, thank you. Hey, I'm gonna go shower."

"Okay." She acknowledged him but he didn't feel her move.

"I need you to move please." He tried to imagine what face she was wearing this time. Concerned? Sultry? Probably her favorite, the smug, teasing grin.

"What if I don't want to?" She challenged.

"You're not naked are you?"

"Maybe I am, maybe I'm not." Of course she wouldn't give a yes or a no; he'd been naïve to expect otherwise. "Open your eyes and find out."

"I'll just use my imagination." He raised his hands, found her shoulders and gently moved her aside. He had already memorized the layout of his house, he could walk it blindfolded. Eyes still closed, he went two steps forward, made a ninety degree turn to the right, five steps forward and made it to the bathroom. He showered and changed, following the directions Tommy and Rig had given earlier for cleaning and re-bandaging his 'battle scars.' Back in his room, Haruko had changed, wearing a Led Zeppelin 'Kashmir' A-shirt that stopped just above her midriff, and dark blue athletic short-shorts; her hair still wrapped in a towel.

"You've got quite the collection here." She was still thumbing through his CD book. "Clapton, Santana, Hendrix, Zeppelin, Boston, Deep Purple…your taste is excellent. Oh, you never said you were a Doors fan?"

"Yeah, they're pretty good, especially for relaxing and chillin' out." He sat back down on his lower half of the bed and leaned against the wall; keeping his eyes open this time. "The L.A. Woman album is one of my favorites of theirs."

"Is it now?" She slipped a CD free of its sleeve and placed it in the stereo on top of the dresser. "It's one of mine too…" A soft rainstorm began playing, thunder gently rolling as a piano and drums were added in the background. Haruko undid the towel on her head, hanging it on his desk chair, and slowly shook her hair out. With her hands on the dresser, facing away from him, she began to rock her hips back and forth in time with the music.

 _Riders on the storm…Riders on the storm…_

 _Into this house we're born…into this world we're thrown…_

 _Like a dog without a bone, an actor all alone…_

 _Riders on the storm…_

Now she moved across the room, her eyes the ones closed this time. She raised her arms above her head, stretching out towards the ceiling, twirling in slow circles. When she had first crashed into his life, he hadn't ever really looked at or watched her. It was not a matter of him deliberately avoiding putting her in his line of vision, it was…he'd _looked_ , but not _seen._ Now that he actually did, he picked up things his twelve year old self had glossed over. She was slim but not scrawny, long slender legs flexed supple muscle as she shifted her weight from one foot to the other. Now the enticing flare of her hipbones beckoned him, their lines and crests outlined on her stomach before narrowing at her waist. With her arms up-stretched, and midriff bared, the faint outlines of her ribs rose and fell in match of her deep, slow breaths. Her mouth hung slightly open, soft lips just parted as she quietly sang along…

 _Girl, yah gotta love your man…_

 _Girl, yah gotta love your man…_

 _Take him by the hand, make him understand…_

 _The world on you depends, our life will never end…_

 _Gotta love your man…Yeahhh…**_

"Hmmm…" She sighed, bringing her arms down and sliding her hands across her stomach to rest just above her short's hem, where the lower lines of her hipbones converged together. "Won't you dance with me?"

"Sorry, I'm not really the dancing type." He said, hardly daring to move. It felt as though he were in a lucid dream, watching her move with such uncharacteristically gentle and calm motions; unprompted and for his view alone.

"That's too bad…I think you'd really like it, if you gave it a chance." She turned away from him, slowing her twirl to almost a standstill with her hips cocked to the side, shorts scarcely hiding the curve of her butt, then completed the rotation. She now looked down at him with half lidded eyes, her hair tussled around her face with stray strands further hiding her, making her look all the more mysterious. "I'd let you dance with me, if you wanted to…no one dances with me…"

"I think I'll pass for tonight." He couldn't decide what her motives were, ulterior or otherwise. With his wounds sore and eyelids heavier than ever, it was proving too tiring to figure out, so he decided it was time to go to bed. "C'mon, we _both_ gotta get up for work in the morning, let's get some sleep."

"Hmmph…okay, if you say so." She sighed and turned the stereo off. "Where's my spot?"

"You have topside, same as before."

"I'm on top, again? Maybe I'd like to try being on bottom?"

"I think we're getting a little off topic?"

"I'm just talking about us trying new ways of sleeping in bed…" She put her hands on the upper bunk and leaned in so her head was under it, just a foot away from his. "What're _you_ thinking about in that dirty mind of yours?"

"About going to bed, just go to sleep."

"You'd like it up top…"

" _Good night._ " He lay down and rolled over to face the wall. Shutting his eyes, he hoped to drop off immediately. He could hear Haruko sigh in what sounded resignation, then turn off the light. The bed creaked slightly as she climbed the ladder and got settled; burrowing into the pile of spare blankets he hadn't gotten around to putting away. Dug in, her noises quieted and silence crept into the room.

Nights in Osceola Mills were incredibly quiet, especially compared to Mabase. His hometown had thrummed with factories, honking cars and a throbbing nightlife. Out here in Coal Country, when the sun went down, it took all the noise with it; save for chirping crickets, peeping frogs, the tic-tack of his clock, and now, Haruko's snoring. As he reflected on the hectic day he'd had, he didn't feel any sort of guilt about his reaction to her return. Justified, in his opinion, didn't begin to cover it. She hadn't shown the least amount of remorse, regret or sign of reflection on her actions. Then add on their spat in Hi-Way, their snarling and snapping even as they fought, and after the fact, a Medical Mechanica robot. She certainly wasn't going out of her way to earn any Brownie Points.

But, yes, there was a 'but'. But if he had to be truthful, he didn't wish her grievous harm or death. He was beyond angry and suspicious, but not inhuman. As badly as he wanted to seize her by the shoulders and shake her with all his strength until some common sense, empathy and decency rattled into her head, he didn't want her _dead._ Maybe to suffer a little, nothing mortal. Sure, he'd said he wished her crash on the Carson Runway had broken her neck, but that had been his temper talking. Now that his fury had ceded, he started posing questions to himself, to try and understand where Haruko might be coming from; why she was the way she was. The thought had often occurred to him that Haruko didn't have any family, or friends even; himself, and maybe Canti if he stretched the definition, being the sole, poor exceptions. She'd never mentioned any family, friends, relations or lovers; never volunteering any personal information. To be fair though, he had never asked. The lack of familial relations didn't exempt her from what she had done, but he did find himself pitying her just a little for it.

"Hey, Haruko."

"Nnnn…'sup?"

"Don't read too deeply into this, but…it's, good to see you, and that you're not, y'know…dead, or something." That was as much as he would allow himself to give her, but it was the truth.

"Thanks, and same here. Glad you're not dead, or something, too."

"I just thought you'd like to know. Anyway, goodnight."

"Night." She mumbled in a voice filled already with sleep. Silence again filled the room, punctuated only when one of them shifted position. Naota, although exhausted, found sleep difficult. He was looking forward to work in the morning, hoping maybe to get some fresh outside perspective on his connection to Medical Mechanica. Whatever the link between them was, he had decided, while staring up at the top bunk in the pitch darkness, that enough was enough. Dealing with Haruko could wait, this was something needing addressed in the here and now. He was sick of living in fear of letting another monstrosity of gears, wires and malice loose. That night, whether it was spurred on by his time spent with Rig in the rural trappings of his home range, Haruko's dramatic reentry into his life, the most recent fight for his existence, or a force inside his own self, a fuming rage woke up in his heart; directed at Medical Mechanica and the havoc they'd brought into his life. Then he remembered something Rig was fond of saying, especially after listening to the news anchors talk about the latest government over-reach or terror attack in the world:

"There's only so much a human being can take, and even less that they _should_ take, but does anyway because it's the 'polite' or 'politically correct' thing to do. Good, decent people will sit quietly, accepting the unwarranted punishment of the world because, well, why? Because they have no will of their own, it's easier to just say 'Woe is me' than to do something. I, for one, refuse to accept getting shit shoveled in my face, and then be talked down to when I protest. Don't just take things because you might hurt someone's feelings, because they have a tin star on their chest, sold their soul for a government office, or doing something may carry a degree of risk. When there's a wolf at your throat, don't concern yourself with the opinions of the other animals that call themselves humans. I mean, if there were a zombie outbreak _today_ , there would be zombie rights advocates _tomorrow;_ same with that wolf trying to eat your face off, there _will_ be people cheering for it. Fuck 'em. Bite, claw, kick, scream, holler, punch that fucker in the throat. You have one beating heart, one set of lungs to give you air, only one life, don't just defend it; go on the offense! And damn those that would seek to hinder you in that pursuit. Or something like that, sorry for rambling again. Shut me up next time okay?" The wolves had just tried to eat him again, and he had only temporarily fended them off. They were sure to return, licking their chops for another go at his jugular. It was time to fight back, however possible…and by any means necessary.

. . .

* * *

Songs:

*The Sweet - Ballroom Blitz

**The Doors - Riders on the Storm

For those of you that read the first rendition of this story, you'll remember that I had used 'A little less conversation' by Elvis Presley, during the fight between Naota and Haruko, and the scorpion assassin unit. It's a great, good song, by The King himself, but it just didn't feel right this time around the same it did the first. I was driving home from work, thinking and talking over the fight scenes when I heard Ballroom Blitz...and it just fit. I thought so anyway.

Fight scenes are something that I have always enjoyed reading and writing. This one was no exception, trying to describe the parking lot brawl between man, alien and machine. Ah, the timeless classic, amiright? We also got another conversation, brief, but insightful, with The Man in Black; and also the first dialogue of a Kauffman brother. More of both will be coming your way in the near future, so stay tuned!

 **Last, and VERY important!** I am going, again in the near future, to be introducing some other characters into the mix, ones that you already know: Commander Amarao and Lieutenant Kitsurubami. They will be making their own entrance to the stage, but I have an issue. With some of the things I have in the works, typing out 'Kitsurubami' each time she talks, is mentioned or is even in the room, is a real chore! Kitsurubami, that's five syllables, eleven letters and one long name. I am trying to come up with a first name for her, hopefully something SHORT. Short and cute, just like her hee-hee. Where was I? Kitsurubami's name, right. So, that's your homework, what is the good Lieutenant's first name? Please either use that review box or PM me with your suggestions. Okay, got that? Excellent! Class dismissed! See you next time, thank you again so, so very much for reading!


	7. Chapter 7

Well...I had originally planned on getting out a chapter a month...annnnd that idea went Missing In Action after about a week; which was around the same time I finally had saved enough to buy an XBox One. Funny coincidence, ain't that? I tell you what, that little box is a time machine. You'll sit down after work on Friday, and next thing you know, it's Sunday evening. Luckily, I was able to resist that siren song and buckle down. Below is the result, written, typed and reviewed over the course of eight very late weeknights. It was actually really fun to write that much in such a short time, at such an obscene hour; it felt like being back in college! Oh, memories. Thank you so very much with your patience, I really appreciate it. Please, read and enjoy!

* * *

. . .

"Wake up in the mornin', feelin' like P-Diddy…Grab my glasses, I'm out the door, gonna hit this city…"

"Mornin' Josh." I was stirring my first coffee and checking in on Canti and Josh's progress. Josh was at his bank of computers, headphones on his ears, and was doing his best to help Canti crack the Scorpion bot's encryption. Josh had gone home, but Canti had stayed at his post the whole night through; although it was impossible to tell if he had made any progress.

"Hey Rig, what's new?" Josh pulled half his headphones up to free up an ear. "It's the same's before for me and Canti. This bot has some new sort of encryption we've never seen before, can't figure out its key…yaddah…yaddah…yaddah…" Josh's moodiness wasn't unusual. He gets cranky when something, especially a computer related problem, is stumping him.

"And that's why we keep you around." I looked in at Josh's computers and may as well have tried to read Egyptian hieroglyphics. "Do you think Canti can do it?"

"He's probably the only one that can; until we get around to inventing that quantum computer I keep asking about." He sighed and leaned back in his chair, letting his arms hang so his fingers were just off the floor. "It'll be a major pain, but if we can get just a _peek_ at M-M's coding…we could begin taking their encryption programs apart. But…"

"But, what?"

"But why does it have to take sooooo looooonggggg?!" He picked up a loose bolt from the floor and side-armed it at the Scorpion. The bolt bounced off the Scorpion's back with a dull thunk, eliciting no response from the hunk of murderous metal. "C'mon already! Spill your guts, open up, talk dirty to me you naughty little…"

"Keep on keepin' on." I clapped Josh on the shoulder. "You'll get 'em, in time." Josh just grumbled, pulled his headphone down and went back to work; almost as machine-like as his blue-green counterpart. I turned to look out the Bay 1 door, and saw a black Chevy S-10 pulling into the lot.

"Rig, you're early." Tommy hopped out of his truck, holding his door open so Bolt could exit the passenger seat. "It's only seven, you usually don't roll in 'till eight. Is that Josh in there?" He looked in through the regular sized door, between the bay doors and the office. "He hasn't been here all night, has he?"

"No, got in early this morning; prob'bly 'bout six…I think." I followed Tommy and Bolt to the office, closing the door behind us. Tommy took his desk, I mine, and Bolt his station under Tommy's desk; his thumping tail sticking out was the only sign he was there.

"Huh, must've wanted to get an early crack at that bot's encryption." Tommy poured his own coffee, cream, no sugar. He took an orange prescription bottle out of his pocket, palmed two of the pills and downed them with coffee. "But that still doesn't explain why you're up so early." Tommy knows me too well. "What's up?"

"Nothin'…just felt like gettin' up early's all." I pretended to check our official Overwatch email, fortunately it was empty. This's one inbox where you _don't_ want to see a new message.

"Rig…don't you 'nothin'' me." He swung his boots off his desk, stamping them flat to the floor. "You didn't sleep well, did you?"

"How'd you guess? Your crystal ball?"

"The bags under your eyes make you look like a raccoon, for starters." Then he indicated at my chest with his coffee mug. "And you put your shirt on inside out. So, what's up?"

"Damn it all…" I looked down, and so it was. "Oh…it's just a hodge-podge of…well…" I fiddled around for the right words while switching my shirt so the 'AK Operator's Union: Local 47' logo was properly displayed. "A hodge-podge of fuckery. And that's about how I feel."

"Is there…something I missed?" Tommy asked, eyebrows disappearing under the brim of his hat.

"Well, partly. Before you showed up last night, Haruko and Naota were bickerin' at each other almost as ferociously as they beat up on that bot. And Haruko, oh man Tommy, if you'd seen the look on her face, it was just like…murder. Like she was going to take Naota apart, starting from the toes and working her way up."

"That's certainly not good. But he's still alive, so what'd you do?"

"I managed, _somehow_ , to talk them down. For a moment though, I thought I was gonna have to shoot her. A bot, shooting one of those, no problem. It's a hunk of metal, it'd be like shooting a pop can. But…"

"Rig, you must remember she's **_not_** human." Tommy reminded. "It sounds like a bastard of a thing to say, and it really is, but if that's the rationalization you've gotta use, then run with it."

"No, no. It's not that, I just didn't think I could pull it off, to be physically able to do it. I've prepared mentally as much as I can for what's gotta be done…just…"

"No confidence in your skills?" He suggested.

"Way to take the mystery out of everything, but yeah."

"That, is something you personally can't worry about. You got dumped into this job a month and a half ago, and have done just fine considering. Normally one of us'd have you tag along, kinda like an intern. That would've put you with either me, Shifty, or your Dad…what?" I must've made some sort of a face, or Tommy's mind-reading powers had grown stronger still.

"I guess it's finally starting to sink in; that he really is never coming back ever. We hadn't spoken for a year, he was always working anyway, always going off-planet."

"Let me say this much." Tommy was treading carefully, for his sake or mine, I could not tell. "Fathers can be both a source of pride and wisdom, and a source of maddening frustration. George and I are no exception, we've had some spats in the past that would probably make good footage for a COPS episode. Especially the student loans argument."

"But surely you've learned some life-lesson about paying your own way, or something?"

"No, not really. Just that I have to deal with things, move on and also that your Uncle is cheap."

"At least he's around."

"And there, I cannot help you." He admitted. Bolt, sensing the gloom and doom that threatened to sully the office, got up and placed his chin on my knee; staring up with those sad Labrador eyes.

"What's up Bolt?"

"Rrrrrooo…" He sighed, then there was a scratching and whining at the door. The handle turned down as Piddles: The Wonder Dog, let himself in. He joined Bolt, then tried to heave his overgrown butt into my lap. He still thinks he's a puppy.

"Piddles! No, Piddles, down! You can't sit here…gah! Gerroff me you lush!" Settled, he proudly sat panting, then decided to try and lick my face off.

"Looks like Piddles noticed you're having a bad morning." Tommy stated the obvious.

"Yep. Okay, okay, enough you fur-ball. I'm…" _SCHLURRRP!_ "I'm fine…" _SCHLURRRPP!_ "That's enough, that's enough! Down with you sir, down with you!" Piddles finally decided I was smiling enough and hopped down to sit with Bolt on the floor. "What did humans do to deserve dogs, I'll never know."

"Now you're thinking the really deep thoughts." Tommy, finished with his coffee, packed his lip, chewed and spat into the trashcan. In our shared bad habit, I did the same. _P-thuh…P-tang!_ Hey, two points. "But, in all seriousness. I don't know what to say, or tell you. Your Dad, I don't understand why he was how he was, or why he did what he did. I don't know of any hidden, heartfelt letter explaining himself. You two didn't get along, and now he's gone…and that's about all we have to go on. There isn't a silver-bullet cliché line I can say that'll make it all better, or any sage advice to give. This'll be something you'll have to work through yourself."

"Your pep talks need work." Real inspiring huh?

"Hey, I love you enough to tell you the truth. The most hateful thing I could do is fill your ears with bullshit. So, with that dallop of happy-fuzzy's, feel better?"

"Eh, a little." I shrugged, still feeling like the best use of my day would be to crawl back into bed.

"Good, glad to hear it." Tommy checked the clock. "You make your report for last night yet? Don't put that off, or the Dogs will chase you down." He looked down at Bolt and Piddles: The Wonder Dog. "Well, it's almost eight. Naota'll be here soon and _that_ woman too." He peeked out the window. "And right on cue, here they come."

"Ohhh…joy. What face shall I put on for them?" I hauled myself standing, rubbed my face, took off my hat to comb my hair with my fingers; gotta look somewhat put together.

"Your best one Jeff, the one that radiates bravery and confidence." He looked at me with a sad smile, probably wishing there was more he could do. "And, accent that with a winning grin, that'll really tie everything together."

"You think so?"

"I know so. I'm wearing mine right now. Hey." He put his hands on my shoulders, looking me over with narrowed eyes for any glaring signs of stress. "Whether you liked him or not, you, Jeff Carson, are born of good stock; the kind that has proven to be excellent agents. Don't be so hard on yourself, skill comes with time. Now, what's Overwatch's motto?"

"Ever vigilant, ever watchful, ever on guard and hidden in plain sight; We strive against every form of tyranny over the Hearts and Minds of Men."

"And when are we on call?"

"All day, every day."

"Every damn day, ah-men." He added his bit, finally dragging a chuckle and grin outta me. "Now go and be a pain in someone's ass, get in trouble, raise some hell!" With marching orders like that, who could do anything else but smile?

. . .

"Naota, Mizz Haruko! Mornin' to you both!" Rig greeted them, holding back Bolt and Piddles: The Wonder Dog, by their collars. "Bolt 'n' Piddles are happy to see you too!" They wagged their tails upon seeing Naota, but laid their ears back, tucked their tails and growled when they saw Haruko.

"RRRR...RRUUAAOOOF! RRR-AAAOOOOFF!" Piddles: The Wonder Dog made his displeasure with the alien woman perfectly clear.

"BRR-ARRKK!...RRRROO-RRRARR!" Bolt added for good measure.

"Bleagh!" Haruko stuck out her tongue, put her thumbs to her ears, crossed her eyes and made a retching sound that sent the dogs shuffling back into the office, snapping and snarling with fangs exposed. Once they were inside, Rig shut the office door, glared at Haruko, and spat tobacco.

" _Th-puh._ Y'know…Mizz Haruko, I told Naota this his first day, that our dogs are excellent judges of character…an' for someone who owes me a repaired runway, you're getting off to an awfully bad start."

"What? They growled, I growled back." She explained away, causing Naota to roll his eyes and hope that Rig didn't think less of him for his association with Haruko. "I was just communicating with them in their language."

"Whatever." Rig shook his head and looked at Naota with a face that demanded to know 'why haven't you strangled her yet?!' Or at least that's how he interpreted it.

"You'll have to excuse my, alien, acquaintance Rig." Naota got in this little dig, it wasn't often he was given an easy shot at her. "She's ignorant to customs of Earth; like tact, decency and manners."

"Noted." Rig dryly remarked and spat tobacco again. "Well, I h'ain't got anything for you two to do at the moment, it's been a long day already."

"That's good actually." Naota had slept on his thoughts from the evening and had some questions to ask. "Who all's here, I see Josh's truck, and Tommy's too."

"Mike and Johnny'll be here in a few, actually, here they come now." Two more trucks arrived, crunching to a halt in the final seconds of a tied race to be first to work. "Whattah yah wanna talk to us about?"

"I want to talk about how we can take the fight to Medical Mechanica." Rig seemed taken aback for a moment, Haruko as well. Both of them gave him a wide-eyed, surprised look as they processed his declaration.

"Now that…that right there…" Haruko said, already licking her chops in gleeful anticipation. "That's what I'm talkin' about."

. . .

Well, here was his moment. He had every member of G&R Fab and Cranes' undivided attention. Josh, Johnny and Mike sat on their computer chair and shop stools, each having a second morning smoke, the grey clouds wreathed around their heads. Rig and Tommy, surrounded by Bolt, Sam, Gus, and Piddles: The Wonder Dog, chewed and spat their tobacco from a low-boy trailer deck. George reclined in one of the many odd office chairs scattered around the shop, twisting a large ring on his right middle finger. Canti maintained his statuesque post, hard-wired to the Scorpion bot. Haruko, meanwhile, took a rolling creeper for her seat and lounged upon it while using the eraser end of a pencil to clean her ears. What an audience.

"O-okay. So…" He suddenly felt incredibly self-conscious. It wasn't like him to make a show or deal of things, but this was an unavoidable subject. "So, you all know about Medical Mechanica, their robots, Haruko, and the portal in my head, so I won't bother going over that…are you guys really gonna take notes?" Johnny, Mike, Josh and Rig already had their notepads and pencils at the ready. "Actually, maybe that'll help. Anyway, long story short, I'm getting all kinds of tired with M-M's bullshit like _that_ …" He pointed at the Scorpion bot behind everyone. "I don't like having this portal, robots trying to kill me, being stuck in some comic book day-dream or any of the side effects…" He eyeballed Haruko in his peripheral, but she was more preoccupied with reading the creeper's warning label to notice his comment. That or she really didn't care. "That come with it. I don't know what I can do about my situation, but I can't do nothing either. I mean, am I supposed to live the rest of my life walking on eggshells in permanent fear of, at any given moment, letting loose my own executioner? I want to, need to, fight back…but have no idea how. So if you have any ideas, now'd be a great time to share."

Somewhere in the farthest, deepest corner of the shop, a lone cricket chirped. Maybe he'd dropped too much on them at once? No, this declaration was nothing to revealing to revealing M-M the first time. His delivery could have used work, but seriously, not a single suggestion?

"Well…there's one thing you could try." Haruko threw in her two cents, her head lolling on her shoulders as her face filled with that smug smirk. "Have you considered surrendering? Failure's always an option."

"Okay, you're not allowed to make suggestions anymore." He pointed at her and she gave her best 'Hey, screw you, at least I contributed' look. "Anyone have any positive, helpful ideas?"

"Sorry bud, but none really come to mind." Johnny said. "I feel, we all do, for you, and you're a good kid who shouldn't have had this dropped on him. But…" He shrugged and lit up another cigarette. "… _Fooo…_ there's not much the group of us can do besides try to keep you safe; play pure defense. I mean, M-M's, like you said, in some far off reaches of the galaxy. How are a bunch of goofy hicks like us s'posed to fight someone we can't even get to?"

"And don't ask me." Haruko broke Naota's ban on her speaking. "Even if the G.S.P.B. had a half-assed guess as to where M-M central is, they wouldn't tell us."

"Am I just screwed then?" He was starting to feel like a fool for even bringing the subject up. He'd woken up filled with fire and optimism; only to have it wither away in five minutes. "Is it hopeless?"

"Just because a solution hasn't freely presented itself, doesn't mean one doesn't exist." Mike advised, speaking for the first time in the discussion. "If solutions were easy to come by, we'd all be out of a job."

"Okay, there's that, I guess. Could we get the government involved or something?" He asked and was received with tired sighs. "What? That's out too? Isn't it like, their job to deal with this kind of stuff?"

"Naota, you're still fairly new to the U.S., so you don't know…" George explained. "But our, illustrious and enlightened government…" Naota didn't think a human's voice could sound that side of sarcastic; George's sarcasm was on a different level. "Can't even build a damn healthcare website that'll run longer than two hours without crashing. If you drop this bomb on them, and this's provided they listen to you, their brains will seize."

"And that's if you're lucky." Mike added. "If the military got wind that by bonking you on the head under the right conditions, you spawn massive, self-directed robots, they'd box you up and ship you off to Area 51 to farm your head until M-M comes in person to see where all their robots are disappearing off to. Not the path I'd want to take."

"Gotcha." So government back-up was a bust. On to the next question then, maybe he could make progress there. "Okay, next point. Four years ago, they attempted a takeover of Earth using one of their Irons. Have any of you heard of anything weird, like really weird, going on around the world, any Irons in the news?"

"No Irons…" Josh stroked his goatee in deep thought. "I'm always on the web, where news travels at light speed…however…"

"However…what?" George asked, but his tone suggested it was more of a warning than a question.

"However, there's been some weird going-ons at a few of the mines around here lately." Josh finished slowly, like he was seeking approval for each word.

"Miss Haruhara, if I may assume…" Tommy brought Haruko back into the discussion. Did anyone hear him say she wasn't allowed to talk anymore? "You are the resident expert on what Naota calls N.O. Could N.O. affect diagnostic or detection equipment in odd ways?"

"If it's not calibrated to account for it, isn't properly shielded or designed with N.O. in mind, absolutely." Haruko gave the most comprehensive, straightest and most honest answer he'd ever heard. In fact, he'd wished he had recorded it.

"That would explain it then…" Tommy mused in what Naota recognized as a clearly baited statement. Now, who would bite?

"Explains what?" Haruko cracked first.

"Roman's Mine of course." Tommy said, looking at Rig and George with that strange Carson gleam in his eyes…was there something Naota had missed? "I've heard tell over the CB that it's become the Mecca of the mysterious and macabre." He added in a deadened whisper, holding his audience on edge. "Disappearances, un-explainable and inexplicable accidents and events, surely worth a look. Especially since the rumors started when they sealed it off from public access."

"Wait, sealed-off from public access?" Rig turned to his cousin. "When did _that_ happen?"

"Just this morning. Already the rumor mill's in full production."

"Why didn't I hear about that?"

"'Cause you didn't talk to the mailman, who'd heard from a Denny's waitress, who'd been texted by her B.F.F. Rose, who had been told by her boyfriend that his cousin's twice removed nephew's golf buddy, had been fired when the new management had taken over."

"Wait, wait…wait." Mike held up his hand, scanning his notebook. "Did you say 'thrice' removed cousin?"

"Tw-uh-ice removed." Tommy clarified.

"Gotcha. As you were."

"Guys, can we please stay on topic?" Naota tried to reel the G&R crew back into focus.

"I am on topic Cochise." Tommy turned back to him. "It seems to me that strange happenings follow you, wherever you are, and whether you will them or not. I know that the only way forward for you, Mister Nandaba, is to seek out strange events wherever they raise their heads, and face them front-forward. Does that make sense?"

"Nope." He actually grasped what Tommy was driving at, but wasn't overly thrilled about looking for trouble. 'Where did all my bravado go?' He asked himself. He couldn't lose his nerve now, especially in front of everyone. "Well, I kinda do. What's your suggestion, what're you getting at?"

"Start at Roman's Mine." Tommy said, taking Rig's notepad and scratched down the address, then ripped off the page and handed it to him. "That will set you upon your way."

"Thank you Tommy. Uh, Rig?"

"Yeeeessss?" Rig gave a Cheshire smile, obviously hoping to be invited along. Naota couldn't leave his friend behind; that would be too cruel. Naota didn't have much choice either, he still was waiting for his driver's license to arrive in the mail.

"Would you be willing to drive?"

"More than!" Rig hopped up from the trailer, spinning his keys around his thumb. "I'm ready to mount up when you are, we should go now while the day's young."

"Oh, a few last things before you rush off." It was George this time. "Be careful out there. We don't know these new owners like the old timers and regulars around here, so just go out, take a quick look around for now, then come straight back. Understand?" Naota nodded. "Good, I don't want to have to come and pick you up from the county jail. Lastly, Haruko. You will be going as well."

"I will?" She had been caught off guard, staring around the shop with a 'shoot me, I'm bored' look glazing her eyes. "Cool! So, when do we leave?"

"Now? Now's good for me…if that's okay." Naota asked, looking at George and Tommy for permission.

"Well, I was going to have you and Haruko start filling in that crater out back, but this seems a little more pressing." George thought it over. "You three are released from campus today, head on out whenever you are ready. You have the day, so be back before five at the latest…got that?"

"Yes George, and we'll keep you updated." Rig promised as they headed for his Bronco. "Wish us luck!"

"How far out is Roman's anyway? I haven't been there yet." Naota asked as he and Haruko helped Rig lift off the truck's bed cap and lay it on its blocks next to the carport. It was such a picturesque July day, taking the cap off and leaving the back of the truck's cab open to the breezes made perfect sense.

"It's about an hour north, the top end of the county on the far side of Black Moshannon Forest."

"So what's the deal with this Roman's anyway?" Haruko asked as she swung herself onto the rear bench seat that had replaced the twin jump seats, and sprawled out, boots hanging over the side of the truck.

"Well, interestin' story about that." Rig began as he started his Bronco and off they roared, to hopefully answer the questions Naota didn't even know to ask; those unsettling Unknown-Unknowns. Still, doing something sat better with him than just sitting.

. . .

"Tommy, what's the big idea?" George asked as the rest of the G&R crew watched Rig's truck turn onto the main road.

"Hmmm?" Tommy, preoccupied with his penknife and a pesky hangnail, half-heard.

"Putting the idea of running off to Roman's into their heads, going into who knows?"

"I'm advancing the plot…duh. Gotta give this train a little more coal to get it going. And besides…you're one to talk. You're the one that sent Haruko with them." Tommy pointed out. "I thought we had an updated kill or capture order? Or are we playing the long con on that one?"

"A very long con. We can't just jump her in the parking lot like she's a purse snatcher."

"We'd _ALL_ get our asses kicked." Johnny said and everyone nodded in agreement. "Which makes me feel all the worse for Rig. I mean, will _he really_ have to?"

"Yes, he does; and that's not up for debate." George said, hating himself for the order. "He's my nephew, my brother's son, and that means I cannot afford to be seen making exceptions."

"We can't even help him out?" Mike asked. "He's, I mean, I'm not much older, but he's just a kid."

"Can't believe I'm agreeing a little, but I started, unofficially, at his age." Tommy said. "That's some heavy shit to drop on him, with all he's already carrying. Man, I miss being sixteen…"

"Times were different when you were that age. Hell, I got started during the eighties at seventeen." Johnny recalled. "M-M was hardly on our radar, and we were more concerned with domestic threats."

"The Russians nuking us to Kingdom Come?" Josh asked, having only been a baby at the tail-end of the Cold War. "Really, _that_ used to be our biggest problem?"

"The universe's gone mad." George sighed and all nodded solemnly in accord. "To answer your question, I figured a little extra 'muscle', with Rig and Naota, couldn't hurt. Haruko may be on our naughty list, but is still kinda-sorta on our side; and could prove herself to be useful, maybe even redeemable; well, maybe that's a stretch."

"There's just one problem that I've noticed." Mike caught everyone's attention. "Now, I know they bicker at each other, but considering their history, don't you think Naota and Haruko get along…y'know…a little _too_ well? Like the fact they're willing to be in the same room?"

"What?" Tommy managed to only chuckle. "Just what are you insinuating, that they dig each other?"

"I dunno, just a, you know…just forget it." Mike threw up his hands in resignation.

"Well, I hope your intuition's wrong." Tommy said, tapping and twisting open his tobacco tin. "Because, if you're right, that'll be a problem that could fuck everything up."

"Wouldn't that be Situation Normal, All Fucked Up?" Josh, not fully grasping the gravity of what Tommy had said, laughed.

"No, it'd be much worse." George said. "Its things like that, that get people killed."

. . .

"Oh! Sir, you're early." The Aide, used to being the first to enter the Boardroom, jumped slightly seeing his boss. The Head was lounged deeply in his chair, a book open on his lap; with small marker tabs between pages and notes jotted in the margins.

"I had some spare time, and was a little impatient to see the footage from our Assassin unit." He noticed The Aide shifting his weight, unused to setting up the Boardroom with supervision. "Anyway, as you were. Just pretend I'm not here."

"Yes Sir, sorry Sir." The Aide busied himself booting up the computer for the projector and touchscreens around the table, and laying out the briefing packets he'd finalized that morning. As he worked around the table, he passed The Head, totally absorbed in his book.

"May I ask a question Sir?"

"I believe you just did, but I'll allow another."

"What book is that?" He nodded at the pages inscribed in a language foreign to him.

"It is called 'The Art of War', written by an Earthling named Sun Tzu; a fascinating work."

"Heh…" The Aide's eyes widened and his breath sucked in with a fearful gasp as he lit slip a derisive snort. "I'm terribly sorry, please forgive me!"

"No, no, it's alright. Are you surprised to find me reading something from Earth? I thought you would remember 'The Seven Pillars of Wisdom' I was working through?"

"Quite surprised. I mean, the scribbling of such a backwards and primitive species? Surely they do not compare to the works of The Temple? And where do you even get them?"

"Oh goodness no!" The Head dismissed the notion with a wave. "If you must know, I ask our Men in Black to bring me back these little souvenirs. My reasoning is because I find it insightful to look into the thoughts and musings of a species that's historically given us more than their fair share of headaches. Did you know…" The Head help up his book for The Aide to better see. "That this very book, is read by Earthen generals and leaders of state and industry, all across their globe, ally and sworn enemies alike?"

"I did not."

"Even their businessmen peruse it, for application to their cut-throat markets. If you want to better fight your enemy, you must understand him. You need to know his motivations, strategies, fears and beliefs; and there you find his weaknesses. Only listening to your own doctrine and dogma shackles you to an echo chamber of the same old ideas.

"If I didn't know it was you speaking those words, I would have thought them to be heresy." The Aide eyed the book like it was a coiled serpent; ready to strike and inject his mind with lies and evil thoughts.

"Come now, let's have none of this talk of heresy." The Head snapped his book shut. "There's no need, nor basis, for that kind of language…is there?"

"N-no Sir; my humblest apologies." The Aide stammered, unable to meet The Head's eyes.

"That's better. Now, the Council and Board will be here soon. Let's preview the notes so we are ready."

. . .

"Oh yer gonna love Roman's." It was indeed a picturesque day, improving my mood drastically. A forget-me-not blue sky, nary a cloud in it, the cap's off the truck to pull in that seventy-five and breezy weather, Jethro Tull's on the radio…can't beat it man, yah jest can't. "They're doing all kinds of work there. Strip, shaft mining like you've never seen, drilling for gas, but also open pit too."

"Open pit?" Naota'd been half following my rambling, half gazing wide-eyed out his window at the countryside flicking by, and half keeping an eye on the snoring Haruko sacked out on the backseat. She sure was a hard sleeper. "Is that the one where they just dig a deep hole, and keep going straight down?"

"Ha-ha-ha! Deep hole he says…oh, wait 'till you see. Take whatever you're thinking, cube it, double that, then add whatever a 'stupid' amount would be…annnd, that'll get you in the ball park."

"Really? That's one hell of a deep hole. Big enough to hold her ego?" He nodded back at Haruko.

"Ehh…lemme rephrase."

"So not that big, got it."

"Now you're catching on." Roman's was a good hour's drive north, but we finally arrived, only to find an Un-Welcome sign. "Closed to public…Employees of Mecha Mining only…Use of lethal force is authorized. What in the actual hell?" I was truly surprised, I hadn't expected this hostile of a reception; and we weren't even at the front gate. This was just a side-access road, a dirt path gouged through the trees by a bulldozer.

"Sooo…now what?" Naota asked, re-reading the obviously new sign bolted over the old one. And, Mecha Mining? Really? _Really?_ Reallllllly subtle there Medical Mechanica. Pro tip: If you're gonna open a front organization, DO NOT put your initials in the name! That would've been like great-grandad going with Osceola Welding, O.W. for Overwatch. Oh well, makes our job that much easier.

"They're _obviously_ bluffing Nao'." Haruko'd woken up and read the sign herself. "C'mon, let's go get our look!" She kicked the back of our seats. "Or are both of you boys just scared?"

"Hey, what's some fun without the risk of bodily harm?" Naota said, giving me permission to roll forward. We ignored the sign and headed on up the hill. Roman's sits in a wide, winding valley, so you have to go uphill, then downhill to get in. There are several access roads, which is typical, this was one of the smaller ones. I was hoping, and so far it was, it would be one of the lesser guarded ones. The whole drive had been an exercise in keeping calm and appearing all was normal. Tommy and George had essentially given us permission to go up to the lion's den and to have a look around for nuthin' in per-tic-u-lar when we got there. I didn't know the circumstances of my Dad's passing, but it very well could've been doing something exactly this dangerous; and stupid now that I reflect on it. Then again, sending three…well, two teens and whatever Haruko would be, should arouse less suspicion than a truck full of full grown men. Yep…that's us, three dumb, stupid kids out for a summer cruise, we took a wrong turn…yep. That's totally what we're gonna have to run with, 'cause I can't think of anything else believable. Oh Christ, this's really happening. God, Allah, Buddah, Shiva, Spaghetti Monster, if any of you are paying attention…please don't let this shit go sideways. Thank you, and ah-men.

. . .

'It's painful to even _watch_.' One of the Security Councilmen thought as they viewed the Scorpion-Bot's last, static-filled moments though its own cameras. They winced at every stab, groaned at every destroyed limb and howled when Haruko used a piece of steel rebar to savage its innards.

"Let it be over soon…let it be over soon…" The Director of the Assassination Division had turned translucent. Life seemed to be draining from him, out through his feet into a shameful puddle of embarrassment, failure and fear. The finals blows came, drawing anguished moans from the audience, and then the remaining battery gave an eye a few last moments of recording power. Three figures were seen arguing in the parking lot, but with no audio, their words were lost. A truck with a crane built into it pulled up, a group dismounted from its deck…then the signal was lost.

"…Sir. I can explain." The Assassin Director began, attempting to hack through the oppressive layers of silence smothering the room.

"That will not be necessary." The Head didn't look up from his touchscreen, using his stylus to jot down the last of his notes. "You, and your staff, are dismissed."

"I beg your pardon?!" Indignation and outrage replaced tepidness, egged on by the Assassination Director's pride. "You can't possibly expect to just, wave me and my department aside…"

"Are your ears as defective as your robots?" A vein ticked on The Head's bare scalp, a dire warning to all that didn't heed it. "I said, you are DISMISSED. Off with you!" Disgraced, the Assassination Director stormed out with his aides in tow. No one uttered a single sound, holding their breath while waiting for The Head to speak.

"Well, that was unfortunate." He dryly remarked. "Forgive me gentlemen, I did not intend to act so short in your presence. Now, this provides an excellent transition to our next set of options. Aide, if you could bring those slides up? Thank you. Now gentlemen, I would like to hear your thoughts…"

. . .

"Oh…now that can't good." Rig stopped just shy of a hill's crest and sat high in his seat. "Take a look."

"Nope. That isn't good at all." Naota leaned out his window, following the road half a mile forward through the forest. Almost obscured by the trees and the prolific rhododendron bushes, was a roadblock. Two jet black SUV's with smoked out windows barricaded the road. Patrolling around them were eight men. Each was swathed in black military fatigues, laden with armor plates on their shins, knees, thighs, chest, back, arms and shoulders. A smooth, form fitted helmet capped their heads, while their faces were hidden by respirators, balaclavas and black mirrored goggles. The equipment hanging from their vests and belts was similar to Rig's 3-Gun outfit, but much newer and their rifles were different. Instead of AK-47's, they toted FN SCAR-H rifles. Even from a distance, Naota felt a hollowness of fear open up in his stomach. These weren't rent-a-cops, hired guards or even private security contractors, and weren't there to scare off trespassers; not with the equipment they carried. These were _soldiers._

"Hey, are they still bluffing?" He asked, looking back at Haruko. She was standing, elbows resting on the cab's roof while she borrowed Rig's binoculars.

"Meh. I've seen worse. They're just some weekend warriors with waaay too much tacti-cool crap and too little common sense." She scoffed, handing Rig his binoculars back.

"Those're FN SCAR Heavy models…" Rig peered through his binos. "They're carrying Five-Seven pistols too, those're really good at piercing soft body armor, and emptying your wallet. An' their get-up's not cheap either…Haruko's right on the tacti-cool." He appraised the soldier's equipment, then added: "Man, I wish I had money to buy half that stuff…"

"So what now what, Naota?" Haruko leaned down to look into the cab. "Gonna puss out and slink back home?"

"No! Don't be stupid." He scoffed and sounded a great deal more carefree than he felt. He was actually thinking they should've cut their losses at the Un-welcome sign and called it a day. But, he'd committed to this venture, and it was time to follow through. Nervous as he was, he was even more anxious at the chance for some semblance of an answer to his problems. He'd just have to trust Rig and Haruko, there was a terrifying thought, if something went wrong. 'And what's the worst that could…no, wait, wait…don't think that. You'll jinx yourself. Think optimistically.'

"Yo, Nao', daylight's burnin' man." Rig jarred him out of his thoughts. "We pressin' on or not?"

"Yeah, I mean, yes. Yes, we're pressing on."

"Okie-dokie." Rig began backing the Bronco up, down the hill.

"Uhm, the mine's that way…"

"I know." Rig pulled off between two trees and after pulling into a fold in the hillside, parked them fifty yards off the road; obscuring the truck behind a wall of mountain laurel. "But the only way we'd run that block's with a tank. We're gonna be on foot from here. Don't worry none, I've hunted out here a few times and know a way in. Follow me."

Through the wood they trekked, following and taking great care to step in Rig's boot prints. This was the farthest and, according to Rig, one of the oldest sections of Black Moshannon Forest. The canopy above filtered out the sun, shading the floor in a soft gloom. Only whispers of breeze managed to sift down, making the air feel close and every twig crack echoed like a rifle shot. Rig had spoken fondly and often of Black Moshannon and its trees so massive the three of them, hand-in-hand, wouldn't be able to encircle one. He's said he reveled in the stillness, peace and serenity they offered; where Nature welcomed him in its quiet embrace and kept the World at bay.

Naota didn't feel the same sentiments. A city dweller for most of his life, the woods still held a lingering sense of unease and hostility for him. It felt _too_ quiet, every rustle rending the delicate hush. The air pressed in on him, its heaviness leaning on his shoulders. All the smells of rotting wood, leaves and other dead things was especially pungent to his unaccustomed nose, filling it with an odor of decay. When Rig described an escape to a paradise a world away, Naota likened it to trespassing, sneaking into an old library's forbidden section; intruding into a house where the house itself knew they weren't supposed to be there. Or…perhaps it was the paramilitary gunmen two hundred yards on his left…he wasn't completely sure.

. . .

Haruko suddenly remembered that she hated forests, especially when they were as steeped in time and old memories as this one. It reminded her too much of home.

. . .

"Oof!" Naota had lost himself in the greens of rhododendrons, and walked straight into Rig's back. "What the…"

"Hush." Rig ordered in so fierce a whisper that even Haruko stopped. " **Do. Not. Move**." They had been climbing a long, increasingly steep hill, following a dried creek cut into the boulders and forest floor. Here it had narrowed considerably, only just ten feet across and as many deep; exposed tree roots on either side jutted out from the dirt. Rig inched forward, cautiously rolling his feet from heel to toe at each step. Looking down, he crouched and slid his left hand's fingers under some invisible object.

"What is it?" Naota asked, speaking so low he almost coughed.

"Tripwire." Rig took out his pocketknife and cut the line. "Almost didn' see it, damn nearsightedness. Knew I should've worn my glasses today…"

"What's it hooked to?" Haruko looked left and right on the ground. "I don't see anything…unless…of course." She looked up, along the bank of dirt above their heads.

"Yep, signal flare. See it?" Rig pointed for Naota. Secured to a tree's trunk, just above their peripheral, was a rocket type flare. This kind would fire with an explosive and deafening bang, soar above the trees, and then burst in a firework style display. "This crik's a natural choke point. They really don't want people comin' up here…"

"Which means they have something to hide." Haruko said, and Naota had to admit she was probably right.

"C'mon Rig, lead on." Rig took point again, Naota in the middle, and Haruko pulling security at the rear. Without incident they reached the hill's summit. A few yards ahead, it fell quickly away into the end of an abandoned strip mine; the edge of Roman's Mining Proper. They lay and burrowed into the tall grass growing along the ridge, to mask their silhouettes, and crawled the remaining distance to the cliff's edge. Feeling securely hidden in the foliage, they began taking in what was lain before them.

"See anything interesting yet?" Rig asked as Naota scanned with the binoculars. So far, everything seemed in order; compared to other mines he had visited. There were the usual main office buildings, smaller mobile offices at each dig site, worker barracks and mess halls, service buildings, supply depots, motor pools, maintenance bays, a small bustling city gouged and scraped into the rock; all normal. A few buildings, mixed in with the others, seemed brand new. Black uniformed soldiers guarded their entrances, and were the only ones going in or out of them. Also new were a series of steel frame towers, some with what appeared to be spotlights, dotting the complex. Meanwhile, trucks, loaders, bulldozers and equipment of all the usual kinds trundled along in boringly routine patterns. From this point, he could see, he was guessing, only a third of the total mine. The unseen portion was obscured by a bend in the valley and trees, mountains of coal and fill dirt. Just past those obstructions rose a column of billowing steam, a steady thick cloud emanating from the earth. Having never seen that phenomenon at any other mine, he wanted a better look at its source.

"Hey Rig, think we can follow this ridge, to the right, and get a look at where that steam's coming from?"

"Reckon so." Rig, opening and closing his eyes, squinting to overcome his nearsightedness, took back his binoculars. "Lemme look…remind me to ask for a new pair of eyes come Christmas…okay. It looks clear, I don't see any sniper scopes glinting." He, Naota hoped, joked. "Let's back up and march on." They faded back into the woods, then proceeded along the ridgeline. Up, down and around the boulders and rocky outcroppings they slunk, Haruko continuously looking back over her shoulder.

"See anything back there?" He asked as she stopped again, standing on a fallen tree for a better view.

"No…but I hear something…" Her ears visibly pricked up, twitching as they strained to capture any hint of sound. As they waited, even Naota began to hear what Haruko had probably heard for minutes: a revving and gunning pair of motors, rapidly growing closer…and closer…

"Hide!" Haruko hissed, leaping off the tree and shoving him towards Rig. "Find us a hole!"

"Down here!" Rig had found a small den dug by some animal, underneath a shale ledge. Rig slipped inside, then pulled Naota's feet down while Haruko shoved his shoulders, then followed him down. Jammed together, hardly daring to breathe, they watched through the foot high gap between dirt and rock. The first dirt bike zipped by, ridden by a black uniformed soldier; his rifle slung across his back. The second bike mounted the very rock they were using as cover, tires crunching loose shards of shale while the motor rattled and popped a rough idle. Over the engine, a radio crackled, prompting the rider to take off again, his motor fading away down the mountain.

"Close call." Haruko said, peeking out and watching the soldier as his disappeared into the trees. "They must be a roving patrol, they weren't actively looking for us."

"Well ain't _that_ a relief?" Rig wriggled out of the den, then stepped up onto the boulder, craning his neck for a last look at the pair of riders. "Naota, whatever you wanna see, we'd better get there quickly. The longer we're here, the more likely those two, or their buddies, will corner us for a chat."

"Alright, I'll take lead then." Naota led the way, keeping an eye out for tripwires, and his ears for dirt bikes. Repositioned in the grasses of their new overlook, Naota accepted Rig's binoculars. The steam still roiled as thick as ever, flooding out of several massive openings in the mine. Scores of workers scurried about, bringing a ceaseless stream of materials down earthen ramps, disappearing into the mist. He strained his eyes but couldn't make out any source of the steam. This little foray was beginning to look like a bust, especially with the presence of the soldiers and random patrols. He was ready to hand Rig back his binoculars when Luck made its move. A heavy breeze kicked up and the sun flared as a cloud was pushed aside. The steam blew off, revealing the caverns hollowed out below the mine's surface, and what lay hidden within. It was only partially built, a half-way done skeleton frame, and over two miles away. But, Naota recognized it instantly; the flood of ice flashing through his veins, from head to toe and through his heart, confirmed it. In a remote, boondock Pennsylvanian coal mine, just an hour north of his house, a Medical Mechanica Iron was being built.

. . .

"I heartily agree." One of the Board Members said, swinging his glasses by an earhook. "We cannot continue wastefully throwing perfectly good Assassin Units at this Nandaba boy. It's a great shame, that cannot be disputed, that the robots have not succeeded despite the A-D's most faithful efforts."

"Which is why…" A senior Security Advisor, with his red and black, immaculately pressed, crisply starched uniform decked with medals and campaign ribbons, inserted himself into the discussion. "I have been advocating for the Council to approve the Marines to handle this affair. The operation would take all of two hours, and this whole mess will be as done in as Nandaba would be."

"May there come a day, the Priests willing…" Another Board member broke in, raising his left hand above his head with his palm facing the ceiling. "When I will no longer be forced to entertain the commando, _fantasies_ of our local Jackboot Union! Let the _Marines_ …handle it? Oh yes, let's apply the same subtlety and finesse of a tornado!"

"Then what do you suggest?"

"Well, for starters, we still have to _locate_ Nandaba." The Case Officer, assigned to oversee the investigation into Naota, outlined. "And I fail to see how your Marines would manage that without alerting even the least mentally active Earthling as to what they were up to. But, if it's a real war you want, then by all means! Turn your men loose, and undo every scrap of progress we have made on Earth…"

"It is gutless suits like you, too squeamish and wrapped in your control-freak fetishes that…" The Marine Commander now spoke, his chest ballooned as he filled with raging hot air, ready to unload on this pitiful pencil-pusher.

" ** _Gentlemen!_** " The Marine Commander made a slight whistle as he deflated at The Head's verbal thunderclap. "That, will be _quite_ enough. From everyone. I understand everyone is frustrated in their own ways. But this is what happens when we are not adequately challenged on a regular basis. We become complacent such that minor inconveniences seem like end-all crises. Does that assessment sound like a fair one?" Heads around the table humbly nodded. Victims of their successes, the movers and shakers of Medical Mechanica had become settled in their routines as of late.

"Now, let's start over and review. Our Men in the field, on the scene so to speak, have been keeping us updated, and are reporting smooth progress. Construction is moving right along with our acquired foothold and the rich resources contained within, and our timeline is still holding. We accounted for little hiccups when our schedule was drawn up, you all remember." The Head gestured at the screen on the wall, showing the last flickering image of the Scorpion's camera. "Even the reappearance of Haruko Haruhara, accounted for. All that remains, is, for us…to…" The Head trailed off, his eyes narrowing to focus on something off to the side of the screen. "Stay the…huh."

"Sir?" The Aide tried to raise his boss's attention. "Sir, is something wrong?"

"Aide…b…back the video up please." The Head watched, along with a clueless and breath-holding Boardroom. "Alright, play…and…stop! Hold it!" He walked up to the screen, focusing on a white truck in the background. "Os…Oohsss…Auh-see…" He struggled to pronounce the words painted on the truck's door. "Oh-see-oh-lah…Mmmmilllsss. Oh-see, Oss-ee-oh-lah? O-see-oh-lah?"

"Is that what those symbols mean?" One of the Board members brought up a personalized clip of the video on his touchscreen. "What language is that? I can't make heads nor tails of it." His neighbor looked as well and shrugged.

"It's called English, on of Earth's many languages." The Head explained, starting on the next line of text. "Puh…Pennnn…sss…sil…vain-ia. Oh-see-oh-lah Mills, Penn-sil-vain-ia…hmmm…"

"Did you know he could read English?" One of the Security Councilmen whispered to his neighbor.

"I didn't even know it existed." Was whispered back.

"The state our operation is based in, is named…Pennsylvania, correct?" The Head asked, running a hand over his bald scalp while he tried to remember.

"It is." The Aide confirmed. "Shall I bring up the map?" The Head nodded and a satellite photograph of Pennsylvania splashed across the screen. An overlay of Roman's Mine and surrounding objectives dropped onto the map.

"Do we have a map with all the cities in this state labeled?"

"One moment…" The Aide hurriedly sifted through his files. "One moment…"

"Do, do we not have any maps with cities marked on them?" A Security Councilman asked with indignant disbelief.

"We do sir, just a moment please." A flustered Aide continued to search.

"We _do_ have a labeled map…don't we?" The Head turned, looking at his assistant.

"Ah! Yes, here we are!" In the nick of time, he located the file, buried three subfolders deep. Cities, their borders and demographic information popped up, crowding the screen.

"Okay…okay…" The Head continued to graze his fingers across his scalp, a clouded memory nagging at him. "Aide, could you pass me your screen?" The Aide detached his screen from its docking station on the table and brought it over. The Head sifted the map to the side, brought up the Scorpion's video, and then shunted it to the side as well. Then he opened the Industrial's video footage.

"Sir, I mean no disrespect…" The Operation's Officer began. "But where are you going with this?"

"Found you." The Head paused the Industrial's video. "Now…" He equally spread all three displays across the screen. "What do all of these have in common?" The room was silent as the Board members, Security Councilmen and various Officers searched for similarities. Finding none, they all blankly stared at The Head for answers.

"No one? No one…at all? Really? Very well…" The Head took a laser pointer from his jacket. "First, the Industrial's film. This truck in the background, notice its door. The symbols upon it read: G&R Fabrication and Cranes, Osceola Mills P.A. And, this truck, in the Scorpion video, is the very same! And finally, this Osceola Mills…" He swung the laser's point to the map. "Is just south of our operation!"

"S-sir, I can explain…" The Case Officer knew he had best come up with an excuse, a good one, and quickly. He was realizing his team's efforts had been relegated null in a matter of minutes, and that he was in serious trouble.

"Your failure will be addressed later." The Head held up a hand to silence the Case Officer, then pointed to The Aide. "The important thing is we know, roughly, where Naota could be. Have a Courier brought up." He handed The Aide his touchscreen back.

"I will put in a request." The Aide brought up the menu as the rest of the room dissolved into separate discussions of the newest revelation.

"No, use the direct line." The Head said, already penning his message.

"You…want the Courier, now, Sir?" The Aide glanced around at all the others present. Summoning a Courier to a packed Boardroom was not a violation of any rule, but simply just wasn't done. There were too many potential security risks, even though all gathered were the most fiercely loyal members of Medical Mechanica.

"No, I want one five minutes ago." The Head snapped, forcing his hand to slow and produce text legible enough for the computer in the Intelligence Office to read. "Now! Yes, dammit, NOW!"

. . .

"Naota…hello? Say something…" I had looked over to see a pair of ghosts, vaguely Naota and Haruko shaped. Their eyesight, better than mine, had picked up something beyond my vision, and had rendered them dumb. "C'mon man, you look like you've died inside." He kept his eyes glued to the binos, so I looked over to Haruko for a second opinion. She wasn't sayin' much neither, turned the far side of pale. Most telling on her was the look of pure hate she was sporting. Four years running from Medical Mechanica is plenty of time to cultivate a sizeable grudge.

""Here…have a look." Naota handed over my binos, still staring forward. Okay, lemme see what all the fuss's 'bout…adjust some focus…oh. OOOoooohhhhhh…well. That's…excuse me, I need a moment.

. . .

And we're back, we apologize for those technical difficulties just a moment ago, but I had to go and check to make sure I hadn't shit myself. Up 'till that morning, everything'd been, with the obvious exceptions of Mr. Dahl and Mr. Roman, along the lines of a hypothetical or mental exercise. Now, it was all _too_ real. Obscured by steam and hidden from our satellites by the cavern above it, was the beginnings of a Medical Mechanica Iron. And, even worse, I know right, there was no telling how much of the mine they'd hollowed out. The whole damn mountain could've been honeycombed for all I knew. On a side note, 'fore I forget…God, Allah, Buddha, Shiva, even you Flyin' Spaghetti Monster. We talked about this guys. I specifically stated no Medical Mechanica, no Irons, no Men in Black, no nothin', at the very least not on my planet. Yet, here we are. Get it together.

"One of you two mind sayin' _something_?!" I gave Naota a shove in the ribs. "Hey!"

"Ow!" That was enough to get him back this side of reality. "Rig, you, you ah, remember that Medical Mechanica I told you about?"

"Rings a bell."

"Well, that's what looks a helluva lot like one of their Irons. Annnnnnd…that's all I got."

"Oookay. Mizz Haruko, care to add anything?"

"No, not really." She'd picked up the binos, scanning the entire facility, probably trying to memorize every detail she could. Actually, I know she was, because I was too. From our hill, there were four visibly guarded entrances, at least fifty soldiers in my immediate vision (which ain't sayin' much) two brick buildings that looked like small blockhouses, a perimeter of watch towers…neat little set-up. This was only the first dig site of a dozen or so on Roman's property. Uh-huh. Yeah, let that sink in for a moment.

"Hmmm…whoooo…are you?" Haruko'd spotted something, rather, someone, of interest. "And where are you going?"

"Whatcha got? Lemme see?" She passed over the binos. "What am I looking for?"

"About a mile out to our eleven o'clock. Blue and white car with a really stupid looking spoiler on the back. They painted flames around the wheel-wells if that helps…the driver must be the biggest douche…" Hold up. Blue and white car. Stupid-ass six foot wide spoiler on a five foot wide car. Wheel flames. No…it couldn't be. "He's stopping at a guard house." Haruko still had eyes on even without binos. I picked out the white an' blue 2006 Honda Civic out of the brown, black and grey dirt and rocks. It had obviously made it through the security of the first gate, and now was being ushered into the garage of sorts, next to the blockhouse. The garage door closed behind the car, hiding it and its driver from view. Damn, no visual; but then again, how many '06 Honda Civics bomb 'round my neck of the woods? Not a whole lot.

"I know that car." Come along with me, let's see where this train of thought takes us.

"You do?" Naota asked, staring at the guardhouse like he was hoping to spontaneously develop x-ray vision. "Whose is it?"

"Dude named Craig Kauffman, lives up on the Hill, east Philipsburg."

"That's the neighborhood by the high school right?"

"That's the spot, his favorite _hunting_ ground, from what I've heard."

"What's that mean? You know what, not important. Do you think he know what that is?" He nodded at the Iron, shrouded in steam again.

"Well, if he doesn't, he's gonna." Haruko remarked as the Civic emerged from the garage, then followed a truck down into the Earth, and then the Craig-mobile was gone. "Wait a minute, how long have we been here?"

"'Bout…" I checked my watch and realized to my horror we'd been in the same spot for a good twenty minutes. It was well past time to leave. "Twenty minutes."

"We need to leave, now." Even though she'd been disavowed, First Class Space Patrol Officer Haruko had not forgotten any of her training. I packed up my binos and we stood up in the grass to leave. As we did, I heard two sounds. The first was that pair of dirt bikes, rapidly closing on our position. The second was a thunderous buzzing of a _zzzZZZWWWHHOOOOOFFFF!_ , followed closely by the _CRACK!_ of a sniper's rifle firing. That's right sports fans, we'd just been shot at; the bullet passing first faster than the speed of sound, and the rifle's report catching up a second later. Well, that was a new experience, never'd been actually shot at before, and holy shit-balls it's terrifying! If you have weak cardio, have a sniper put a round above your head! _THAT'LL_ git your heart pumpin'! It was now officially past time to go.

Haruko and I seized Naota, one to each arm, good thing he was on the skinnier side, and whisked him and our butts back down the mountain. We had gotten out of the sniper's sights, I hoped, but his buddies were fast approaching. _ZZZ-WHIP!...SMACK!...FFWWWIIIPP!...BANG! BANG! BANG!_ And there they were, right on cue. I risked a look back, seeing two soldiers dismounted from their bikes and slowly edging their way down the hill, firing their rifles at the same time. I yelled to Haruko and Naota that if we got separated, to head for the truck or the road, whichever was closest. I was personally hoping for the truck outright, just repeating that over and over in my head. As long as we can get to the truck…just let me get Naota to the truck…

. . .

Things certainly had not gone according to plan, to understate. Naota had expected an uneventful hike through the forest, a quick look at Roman's Mine, snap a few pictures on their phones, and be back to the shop by lunchtime. Yes, a quaint and unremarkable start to his Wednesday. Instead, he was being half-pulled, half-dragged, half-carried like a sack of potatoes, down a rocky mountain, getting yanked from boulder to boulder as Rig and Haruko leaped erratically to provide a poor trio of targets to the soldiers behind them. Oh, did he forget to mention the soldiers, and the gunfire?!" At Rig's 3-Gun course, he'd always worn earmuffs or plugs, so the unobstructed reports of the rifles rang deafeningly in his ears; the only thing he could hear was a dull ringing. A round even grazed past his ear, rendering that side of his head temporarily deaf. Despite the flying lead, they were making good progress, the shots getting further away and less frequent. Then they had a bad landing.

Leaping from easily ten feet, they landed hard, then the solidity under their feet gave way. The boulder tipped forward, dumping them another ten feet to the forest floor. Haruko went left, sliding down the hill on her backside and popping up a few feet later as if she'd planned it. Naota and Rig didn't fare as well, tumbling fifty more feet end over end before painfully coming to an instant stop against a tree.

"Rig?! Haruko?!" Scattered by their fall and incoming rounds, the others were nowhere in sight. The roar of a pack of dirt bikes sounded the arrival of reinforcements, the first two soldiers had called for their friends. He rolled to his feet and took off, following the paths of least resistance to put as much distance behind him as possible. Never in his life had he been so terrified, even with the events of four years ago factored in. His heart had moved from his chest to begin chirping madly in his throat, he couldn't seem to get enough air, his lungs painfully stretched against his ribs; all while the world flashed by in a flurry of green.

Down to his left, a narrow fissure in the ground appeared in the form of a two foot wide crack. He slipped into the hole, landing in the small stream at the bottom. Forcing his breath to slow, he squatted in the soggy darkness, blinking up at the narrow strip of light. A black shadow stopped halfway across the gap, wafting gasoline fumes from its dirt bike's exhaust. The soldier's armor vest straps and uniform creaked as he rotated in his seat, breathing deep rasps through his respirator. A burst of gunfire drew his attention and he shifted into gear and roared away. Naota slowly clawed his way up the fissure's wall, inching his head above ground by degrees. A quick look around, he thought he resembled a groundhog peering out of its burrow, showed only the fading soldier's back. His black uniform disappeared, the sound of his engine headed towards another series of shots; off in the direction Haruko had disappeared.

"Sounds like she's giving them a hard time." He hauled himself out of the fissure, struck by how suddenly quiet everything had gotten again, after the chaos of just moments ago. His heart and breathing had calmed, but his blood still sang in his ringing ears. Seeing no sign of soldiers, Rig nor Haruko, he figured the best thing to do was make his way back to the truck; quietly. Every step forward now sounded like a stomp, every stick cracking a rifle shot. Rig's Bronco couldn't be too far, right? After a tense walk, flinching at every crackling leaf, he caught a sliver of orange between the trees. He crept forward, holding at the edge of the clearing Rig had parked in. And, sure's shit…there was a soldier guarding it, peering through the driver's side door. Of freaking course. He squatted on his heels, wondering what to do and reviewing his options. While he pondered, an SUV rumbled by on the main road, headed towards the mine and the far off blaring of an alarm. If that alarm was any harbinger, the hills would soon be swarming with trigger-happy soldiers.

'Where the hell're Rig and Haruko?!' He looked around the opposite sides of the clearing and saw no familiar figures. 'And Rig would have taken the keys with him…I hope he didn't drop them.' _Cr-ack._ A stick snapped behind him.

"Don't scare me like that!" He hissed as Rig crouched next to him, his hat precariously perched on his head, and his jeans coated in mud. "What happened to you? Seen Haruko anywhere?"

"I fell into a sinkhole, and no, I haven't." Rig admitted, watching the solider in front of them. "Is he the only one?"

"As far as I can tell. Should we wait for Haruko…or is that a good idea…bad idea?"

"Well, they're probably gonna start circling back here, since they haven't found you an' me…" _Bah-bah-bah-boooommm…_ a far off SCAR fired a short burst, followed by a piercing scream that turned their stomachs in on themselves. Whatever was happening in that end of the woods was far from decent and humane. "An' Haruko's giving them heartburn, they'll assume we're headed for the truck. We'll look for her on the road."

"That'll have to work, I guess…" He trailed off, unsure how to get past the solider. He was shorter in stature, perhaps only five foot, five inches at best. Now that Naota got a good look, he realized the armor plates made the soldier look a lot stronger than he actually was; the uniform certainly was designed to appear intimidating. (And boy, did it work!) But that didn't mean the soldier couldn't still kill them both with his bare hands; he certainly looked capable of just that. Whatever he and Rig were going to do, it'd take both of them to pull it off, and it'd have to be done quickly and quietly.

"Okay, here's what I'm thinkin'." Rig had an idea, and Naota was all still ringing ears. "We'll take him together. You'll tackle him at his knees, and keep his legs pinned so he can't stand up on us. I'll go for his head."

"You're not going to kill him are you?" Even with being shot at and chased down the mountain, he still balked at the idea of his helping snuff out a life.

"Just gonna put him to sleep." Rig assured. "Ready?"

"No. Are you sure we have to do this?"

"Do yah wanna wait 'round for his buddies to show up when they come to tow my truck? I'm sure if we'd explain it right, they'd let us skip right on out of here…or shoot us. Fifty-fifty."

"Fair enough." Now watching the area where the last gunfire had come from, the soldier's back was to them. They left the cover of the trees and approached as quickly as they dared. Ten feet they had closed to, close enough to hear the soldier breathing through his respirator, the jingle of his single-point sling against his rifle, the creak of his pistol's holster strapped to his leg. Rig held up three fingers, put one down, then two, then they attacked. Naota dove straight for the back of the soldier's knees, table-topping him so that he landed flat on his back with a heavy _Ooph!_ Rig meanwhile snaked his arms around the soldier's neck, snapped them together, and then kicked both his feet off the ground to use his weight to help Naota slam their target into the dirt even harder. With his right arm cradling the soldier's neck at his elbow, and using his left to push the soldier's head forward, Rig was quickly cutting off the supply of air of the soldier's lungs. It was an agonizing process. All Naota could do was keep his arms wrapped around those lurching, wriggling legs, trying to throw him off and gain some traction to stand up. Naota rolled so he lay atop the soldier's legs, using his weight to better pin them down. As he did, the struggles lessened; Rig was succeeding in his bid to cut blood off to the soldier's brain. The convulsions grew smaller and smaller until the soldier went limp, passed out for want of blood and air. They hurriedly distanced themselves from the unconscious figure, forgoing the doors and just climbing in through the open back of the cab. Rig started up and stood on the gas, showering the soldier with dirt as they left him behind. The road was mercifully clear and only when they had gone half a mile down the paved road did Rig slam on the brakes.

"Oh fuck…oh fuck…oh fuck…" Rig panted, leaning his head on the steering wheel. "Did we really just do that, did that really just happen?!"

"Shit Rig, I think it did; or this's a really bad dream." Naota had balled his hands into fists, clenching his jeans to keep his hands, fingers and body from quaking. Adrenaline surged through him, rattling him with jitters while the reality of what had just transpired set in. Medical Mechanica was not only back on Earth, but practically in his backyard, its soldiers had opened fire on them with no warning, he'd just help strangle someone to unconsciousness, and Haruko was still missing in action.

"Hey boys, miss me?!"

"GAAHHH!" Both of them jumped, whacking their heads on the roof as Haruko swung herself into the bed and then plopped down on the backseat. She stretched out into a lazy lounge, shaking tousled hair from her face; a lush cat on its pillow. "What's with you two? You both look like death; stressed much?" She wiped her hand across her mouth and chin, trying to rub off a dried black liquid; it had even gotten into her mouth and stained her teeth, especially her front and canines.

"We just got shot at!" Naota failed to keep his voice down. "We nearly died, M-M's here, and I helped knock a guy out! So excuse me if I seem a little stressed! And is that blood?!"

"What he said!" Rig voiced his support while nervously glancing in the mirrors every other second and put the Bronco in gear. "What happened to you? We all got split up when that boulder shifted under us; and yeah, is that blood?"

"We heard a lot of shots over where you went." Naota turned around in his seat, watching Haruko lick specks of the black marks off her teeth. "You didn't get hurt or anything? How'd you get away?"

"Oh, wouldn't you like to know…" She gave a cavernous yawn, the cat was showing off its fangs, and continued picking at her teeth. "I made things a little too personal for them, and they decided it would be best to leave me alone."

"You…you _BIT_ one of them?!"

"Hardly! It was just a little nibble…" She half-smiled, staring at him with half lidded eyes, licking her chops like she was hungry enough for a Naota-sized snack after (probably) _eating_ an M-M, soldier. "And I know a few other tricks too. Maybe I'll teach you some of them when we get home…"

"I'll pass, no thank you!" He turned back around, glancing at the speedometer as he did. "Whoa! Rig, dude, slow down! Take it easy!" Rig, his left knuckles white on the wheel, and his right hand grasping the shifting lever in a death grip, was pushing his Bronco towards the north side of eighty miles an hour. "Slow down, you're gonna get us pulled over or wrecked!"

"Heh?! What? Oh shit!" Rig took his foot off the gas, bringing them back to fifty five. "Wheewww…thanks man."

"Are you okay?" Rig did not look okay. His pupils had dilated, his breathing was shaky and quick, face drained of color and his hands had a noticeable tremor. Naota knew he looked exactly the same, if not worse, but Rig was driving, so he had to be together.

"Yeah, yeah. Just, never been shot at before; really's screwin' with my head. Holy-Christ-on-a-cracker that was messed up! Who opens up without so much's a warning?! And you, how're you so chill?!" He glanced up at Haruko in the rearview mirror.

"Eh, it's not so bad, once you're used to it." Haruko made a lukewarm attempt at consolation. "You've been shot at once, it may's well be a thousand times."

"I don't think I want to get used to getting shot at." Naota said. It wasn't like he was forseeing any major wars on his horizon. "Getting shot at once is one time too many."

"Sooo…we're not going back to the mine then?" Haruko sounded genuinely disappointed.

"Not anytime soon, that's for _daaaammmn_ sure." Rig answered as they approached the southern edge of Black Moshannon Forest, almost out of the woods. "Not for a loooooong time…"

"Then what is your great idea then?"

"Go home, clock out for lunch an' have me a blessed goddamn nap." Rig almost managed a smile back at Haruko in the mirror. "Sound good?"

"You know, that actually sounds perfect." Naota said, keeping a nervous eye on his door's mirror. So far, no black SUV's or dirt bikes had been following them. But, just because he couldn't see them, didn't mean they weren't there. "Should we at least talk to George and Tommy first though?"

"Oh…shit. Well, yeah, of course, I guess…" Rig sighed like he was the polar opposite of thrilled at the prospect. "That's gonna be fun. They're just gonna love hearing about this…"

. . .

"Didja get 'em?"

"Hmm? Did we get whom?"

"You know, whoever your guys were shooting at." Craig gave his head a toss, shaking his hair out of his face. "I roll up and two minutes later, there's a small war goin' down just over the hill."

"Oh, that. I wouldn't worry myself about it, if I were you." The Man in Black smiled. As he reassured Craig, a squad of soldiers hustled by, carrying one of their comrades on a stretcher. His throat and half his face were swathed in black stained bandages, and an emergency respirator was strapped over his mouth. Groaning madly in pain, he clenched a stretcher bearer's hand in his, gurgling and coughing with a fluid, wet sound; blood was in his throat.

"And I wouldn't worry myself about that either, if I were me, right?" Craig guessed as the squad headed for the medical wing.

"You catch on very quickly, such an astute young man." The Man in Black complimented. He said his goodbyes to one of Medical Mechanica's engineers, tasked with constructing the latest generation of Irons, and joined Craig. "Now, your next, and main focus, is follow-through."

"Follow-through?"

"Yes, it's not enough to…oh, what's that vile phrase you're fond of? Hit it, and quit it?"

"Oh yeah, now you're speakin' my language!" Craig laughed, following The Man in Black as he conducted an inspection of the Iron. Craig, an office desk jockey, couldn't name even half the tools or machines whirring around him. All he knew was that there existed a small town, operating on, around, inside and under what had been Roman's Mine. "So now it's time for Round Two?"

"Precisely." The Man withdrew a list from his coat. "Your work with Mr. Dahl was commendable…"

"Hey, you go big or go the hell home!" Craig spread his arms wide, grinning from ear to ear. "Gotta show these old hard-asses who the new Alpha dogs are on the block."

"Indeed, and the Molotov Cocktails were a signature touch." The Man unfolded the list, half listening and half reading.

"The fires of passion always burn hottest." Craig explained. "Passion's key, power too, gotta be fiery; chicks dig that shit yah know."

"On Earth they do?" The Man in Black was making revisions to his list. "Your brother Cole did mention you consider yourself a ladies man, an expert if you will."

"Expert? Thanks Cole for patronizing me. No man, I'm no expert, I'm The _Master_." He dug his phone out of his pocket and opened the contacts list. "Check it. Fifty…three contacts, all of my harem."

"Harem?" The Man in Black looked up to raise an eyebrow. He was willing to entertain the fantasies of his allies, but only within reason.

"Fuck yeah. All these girls I'm workin' in some way. Some I've just started hittin' up with the ole Craig know-how, others I've gotten to pledge their pussies for my personal use only. Hell, I even know different babes for my different moods." He turned to show The Man in Black, who was undergoing a great exercise in restraint, the filthy tip of a dirty iceberg composed of naughty selfies and screenshotted snapchats. "This one's a dominatrix type, this one's the opposite, super submissive and into ropes and chains, this little minx is _obsessed_ with butt stuff, did you know that you can…"

"I think I have a handle on the subject."

"Oh, I almost forgot the best part. I have a schedule mapped out too, so I don't get bored with the same girl. And the best part is, if you stay gone for a few days, they'll blow your phone up beggin' to blow you! Haha, get it?"

"Craig, if I could…?"

"That and if one of 'em's in a pissy mood or is on the rag, I've got a backup or two…"

"Mr. Kauffman!" The Man in Black snapped and Craig dropped his phone in surprise. "That will be quite enough."

"Sorry dude, eh, Sir." Craig picked up his phone and, after piously dusting it off, returned it to his pocket.

"Do I have your undivided attention?" The Man in Black asked and Craig nodded. "Good. Now, this list is your set of new orders. Read them, memorize them, then burn them. Am I clear?"

"Mmm…yep, yep, I can handle this no problem." Craig read his marching orders, then crumpled them up and shoved them into his pocket. "Well, if that's all, I've got places to go, things to see, people to do…"

"There is one last thing. Let's walk and talk." The Man in Black put his arm across Craig's shoulders, guiding him through the chaotic harmony of the Iron's partially built inner workings, and back to his car. "A little piece of advice, man-to-man. You mentioned earlier those fires of passion. It would behoove you to temper those flames and not let them shine so brightly. Why, you ask? Well, I shall tell you. It's because…" The reached Craig's car, and The Man in Black stood back to address Craig while looking him square in the eye. "Naughty little boys that play with fire get burned; and you'll be next if you're not careful."

. . .

"Sooooo…how'd it go?" Mike spotted us first, lifting up the hood on his welding mask. "Not good huh?"

"How'd you guess?" I lay on the wooden deck of the lowboy trailer G&R was working on in Bay 1, and stared at the rafters. Natoa collapsed with a heavy sigh into one of our many rolling chairs while Haruko meekly settled onto a shop stool.

"Well, you look like death…" Mike started, interrupted by Haruko's 'toldja so!' Continuing on…"And Naota looks like he's gonna hurl." Mike shut his welder off and moved to wave his hand over my face. "Hey, anyone alive in there?"

"Funny choice of words…"

"What do you mean?"

"We got shot at, that's all." Naota was doing his best 'Thousand Yard Stare' out the bay door, all of his short life flashing before his eyes, or is that me projecting? Well, let's not get into that anyway, there's nothing good there.

"WHAT?!" Johnny's head appeared from under the opposite end of the trailer, he'd been working on the taillights. "Why, did anyone get hurt?" He worked himself out from under the trailer. Seeing we weren't drowning in blood, he sighed in relief. "I'm getting Tommy and George."

"Oh, no, you don't have to…" Too late. Johnny was already out the door and around the corner to the office. "Well, Naota, Haruko. Prepare to get a talkin'-to."

"Pfffft. What do I care?" Haruko didn't seem phased in the least. "I just work here, and barely at that. 'Sides, I think you're in the most trouble."

"Jeff, office." George ordered, leaning around the door. Dragging myself, to the gallows it felt, I followed him.

"Be right back. Weld up a coffin for me." I waved to Naota, Johnny, Mike and Haruko, and once in the office, took a seat on the couch. George and Tommy were behind their desks, Tommy halfway through that month's Maxim, and George checking our email. After a painful silence, I had to say something. "Well gentlemen, this's been wonderfully productive. Send a copy of the transcript to my secretary, and we'll be in touch." I started to get up, but George waved me back down.

"You're not in trouble, don't worry." Well thank G.A.B.S and the F.S.M for _that_. "We just want to know what happened, Johnny said you got shot at? Are you sure everyone's okay? That's what's most important here."

"We're all fine, unless you count a pair of shit filled skivvies. Yeah, we got shot at, _a lot._ There's a small army hanging out around Roman's, and they're very well equipped, incredibly well trained; Medical Mechanica's finest. The only reason we made it back at all is because we got insanely lucky. I'd guess these are Marine level troops, they've even got SCAR rifle money."

"SCAR rifles? Shiiiit…" Tommy and George looked at each other, then around the office. "And here we are with barely AK-47 money. Okay, so what'd you see?"

"A whole lot of what I didn't want to. M-M's dug into Roman's deeper than Alice in a rabbit hole. They've got the entire site hollowed out, and…goddamn it…"

"An Iron." George knew what had me tongue tied. "That's…just…"

"Fuck." Tommy summed up the mood. For a moment, we just sat, bumps on a log; staring at each other. That morning was the day we had hoped would never come. The Man in Black, as terrifying as his kind could be, paled in comparison to the Medical Mechanica cancer growing just up the road. Without needing to say anything, the three of us knew that from that moment forward, G&R Fabrication and Cranes of Osceola Mills, Pennsylvania, was at war.

. . .

Craig had memorized his new orders on the drive back to Philipsburg. His next step was to burn them, to prevent the list from falling into enemy hands; whoever that could possibly be was enough to make Craig laugh. The local police department had been bought and paid for with envelopes of cash, doled out to the dying coal country's lawmen from The Man in Black's briefcase. The Sheriff's Department had jumped on board with their own illicit bonus checks, and the promise of ruling their counties like barons when Medical Mechanica took charge. With Cole's influence, the State Trooper garrison had pledged themselves as the future enforcers of their new overlord's will; encouraged by the spreading of a fortune's worth of crisp one hundred dollar bills. So with a blue and brown uniformed force in public, and a black-clad army in the shadows, who in the hell did he, the Stud-meister himself, Craig Kauffman, have to worry about?

Still, he should probably burn the orders just to be safe. He dug around his car, looking for an old lighter. He'd given up cigarillos and taken up vaping, evidenced by the empty cylinders in cup holders. Distracted by his search, he hadn't noticed the light change. The cars behind him impatiently honked and he scratched off across the intersection into downtown. He decided the odds were in his favor that no one would randomly pick up an odd balled up piece of paper and actually read it. Craig picked the first alleyway he saw and tossed his orders out the window. Had he glanced back, he would've seen the small dog dozing in the alley. But his phone's ringing promised a hot date, so onward he drove.

. . .

As Craig cruised away, Gus sat up, stretched, scratched an ear and yawned. He'd been walking one of his many beats in Philipsburg, watching, looking and listening; a four legged furry spy operating in plain sight. After all, who would suspect the little black walking carpet with the red collar, the terror to ankles everywhere? Gus sniffed out and found Craig's orders, sneezing with ear flopping shakes as his nose took in Axe body spray, pink lemonade vaporizer fumes and even the moisturizer Craig had slathered on his hands. But what snagged Gus's attention was the Stench, the reek of a Man in Black. It infested the paper, standing up the fur on the nape of his neck and sending a shudder through him from nose to tail. Whatever this paper was, it had to be important. Begrudgingly, getting a too personal taste of cocoa butter lotion, Gus picked up the orders in his mouth and began his walk home.

. . .

"That was fast." Haruko's ears picked up the office door opening, then clicking shut. "So how much trouble are you in?"

"None, actually. But I appreciate the concern." Rig grinned at Haruko, then looked at Naota. "George an' Tommy are talking over 'tential legal routes, excessive force and all that. What I wanna know, is what _you_ , good sir, wanna do 'bout today."

"What I want to do?" One of Naota's most despised things was happening, he was being put on the spot. Johnny, Mike, and now Josh too, Rig and Haruko, were all staring at him, waiting for a response. That feeling of 'why me?' crept up, but he ignored it; his inner monologue was becoming too whiny for his taste lately. He waffled back and forth, mostly wanting to be away from the pressing eyes. But if there was one over-riding factor of his aversion to attention, it was his stubbornness. He'd started looking into Roman's, he'd brought Haruko and Rig into this, and now that M-M was undoubtedly involved, he was going to see this through.

"Here's what I'm thinking. We can't go to the police because they'd never believe us, and even if they did, word would get out and start a panic, or M-M would find out and, I dunno, blow up the planet or something."

"Well, that's not _exactly…_ " Haruko began, but thought better of it. "Eh, never mind, you don't wanna know. You were saying?"

"Gee whiz, thanks. Anyway, we have to keep this as quiet as possible, tell as few people as possible."

"No prob', this conversation doesn't leave the shop." Rig agreed, looking more at Haruko than him. If Rig wasn't wary of Haruko before, he certainly was now after their run-in with M-M soldiers. "But what do we actually do? That's what I wanna know."

"That…we'll have to figure out as we go."

"If I may…" Johnny offered his opinion. "I'd look into Craig Kauffman. From what you've told me, he's obviously buddy-buddy with those M-M guys, and surely knows something."

"Alright…how to go about that?" Naota's mind conjured up images of Spy VS Spy, bugs and listening devices, phone taps and eavesdropping. "We can't just walk up to him and say 'Hey, can I ask you about the guys you're hanging out with at Roman's? You know, the ones that want to take over the world? What's up with that?' Or…I mean…can we do that?"

" _Blackmail_ " Haruko let the word slither from her lips with relish. "It works every time. Everyone's got deep secrets, stuff they couldn't bear being brought to the light…" She slowly gave Rig a sleazy, knowing wink, causing him to become suddenly and very interested in his boots. "Trust me Naota, I'm kinda an expert at dirty secrets. We dig up Craig's, he'll spill his guts, and then some."

. . .

"Gus! Gussy-gus-gus! Where have you been?" Rita only half-scolded as Gus wiped his paws on the mat. "Not hanging around with Bolt, I can tell, you don't reek. That dog's a skunk magnet." She opened the door to let him in, and noticed the paper ball in his mouth. "What's this, a present for me?"

"Brrr-uff!" He laid it at her feet, then slumped to the floor on his back, exhausted from his day.

"You don't say…" Rita un-crumpled the paper, quickly read it, then looked down at Gus. "You stay right here. I'll fix you a treat in a minute, but Georgie needs to see this." She crossed the lot to the shop, letting herself into the office. George and Tommy were in the middle of a conference call with Mr. Welshman, so she waited for them to finish.

"No Mr. Welshman, we are most certainly not fuckin' kidding you." George said. "This's really happening."

"Then we'd better get a move on then, hadn't we?" Mr. Welshman asked in his usual gruff.

"Yes, and we need to get started yesterday." Tommy said. "Call up your guys, the foremen and supervisors, and the workers that expressed interest. George and I are going to directly talk to them."

"You're really? Can you, do that? Doesn't that violate your cover or rules or something?"

"The rules have changed, Mr. Welshman."

"Guess they have. Right then, how's 'bout the usual day, usual time and place?"

"We'll be there." George confirmed and hung up. "Yes, m'dearest? Thanks for being patient. What's that?"

"Look what the dog dragged in." Rita handed over the paper. Tommy and George leaned in to read. "Gus just got in, carrying this."

'Where did Gus get this?"

"Downtown P-Burg today. He said Craig Kauffman threw it out his car's window. Is it bad…how bad is it?"

"It's bad enough."

. . .

 _Blackmail._ Such a foul word, malicious and biting as it rolled off the tongue. It made perfect sense Haruko was only too willing to use it. Her choice of language found her and Naota a week removed, following Craig Kauffman around town in his daily routines; they had become a pair of stalking shadows. After a retelling of events for George and Tommy, and explaining this was something he had to follow up on, he was given permission to venture off campus. But not without stipulations of course.

He was to check in with Rig, Tommy and George every half hour and update them on where he was, and what he was doing. Second, he wasn't allowed to venture out alone, which in all fairness made sense. Rig couldn't go along because Craig knew him, the Kauffman's hated anyone remotely resembling a Carson, and their entire effort could be undone by one recognized face. Instead, he was observing Craig with Haruko; which burned at him the worst kind of way. She'd behaved thus far though, keeping her usual gloating and teases to a tolerable level. So much so, he wondered if something might be wrong with her.

"Hey, you alive over there?" He looked over, across the truck's bench seat, to see she was half-asleep, leaning back against her door. Their vehicle was an unmarked G&R work truck, toolboxes mounted on either side of the bed, a 'nineteen-eighty…somethin' man, I dunno, least the thing runs' according to Rig. "Wake up, you can't be sleeping now. We're on the clock!"

"Snnxxx…N'wha'?" She blinked and shook her head. "I wasn't sleeping. I was, meditating, realigning my chakras."

"Is there a snoring chakra? Or is that part of the realignment chant?" It had been an up and down week with her. While they had been making good progress on Craig, the home front wasn't doing as well. Kamon had come home Friday to catch her ransacking the fridge, cold chicken in one hand, an open beer in the other and a bag of chips clenched in her teeth. Naota was helping Rig do maintenance on the Ought Too, and heard the ruckus from Rig's house. After the dust settled, Kamon began asking how, and most importantly why, Haruko was in their kitchen. After hearing Naota's version of things, Kamon went to George to 'discuss the matter, and maybe see if another occupant would violate their lease.' Things must have worked out because Haruko was allowed to stay, catching up with Kamon and Shingekuni in the kitchen. Although, this time around, his Dad and Gramps acted slightly more reserved around Haruko; _slightly._ His Dad was still his Dad after all.

"I will have you know…"

"No you won't. You won't have me know shit." He laughed, seeing what he could get away with.

"What?" She did a double-take. "Is that… _sass_ , I'm hearing?"

"Mmm…could be. Whatcha gonna do 'bout it? Gimme a noogie? A time out? Spank me?" Hey, if she was always wanting to play the teasing game, it was only fair to return fire.

"Don't…don't give me ideas…" She warned, pointing with a finger that nearly poked his nose. "I might not be able to stop myself."

"Uh-huh, because you're the epitome of personal restraint…oh, look who finally came up for air." Craig, after spending the past five hours in a trailer parked in one of Chester Hill's mobile home parks, emerged. For being in league to whatever extent, with M-M, Craig was an easy man to find. His car, already distinguishable with its distinctive appearance, also broadcast a trackable series of booms from a set of sub-woofers that rattled windows. Hearing Naota's preliminary report, Rig agreed and added that 'That prick's always stuck out like an un-hammered nail.'

Craig himself was as unique and flashy as his set of wheels. Tall at six foot even, he seemed longer with a borderline gangly surfer's beach body. Sandy blonde hair hung to his nose, ensuring he had to toss his head to the side every ten seconds just to see; at least when his hair wasn't contained under a 'Tapout' snapback hat. Polo's and low-cut t-shirts were his favorite stile, as were longer cut plaid patterned shorts loosely held up by a fraying canvas belt; all while Sperry Topsiders covered his feet. Just by watching him, Naota already knew Craig to be a textbook, certifiable even, Douche-canoe. During the past week, he'd visited no less than _eleven_ different girls of various ages, all glaringly younger than his 20 years. This was the third such visit he'd made that day, and it wasn't even dinnertime.

"I'll spot him this much, the guy's got stamina." Haruko remarked as Craig started his car, shaking trailers with his engine's revving and blasting bass. "Most dudes would've been crying uncle by now."

"Uh-huh…not sure if that's a blessing, or a curse." Naota half listened as he took notes. Time, date, location, address, description of the area, contact and any other details that stuck out. He glanced down at his notepad to review:

· 1630 hours, Wednesday

· 300 Hill Street, Chester Hill, Sunny Slope Park

· Contact female, est. 16. Blonde, slim, clothes skimpy.

· Appears to be romantic partner

· Time spent: Five hours and

"Five minutes now…" Naota checked his watch as the couple swapped spit on the sidewalk, leaned on Craig's car. This goodbye was dragging annoyingly long, causing him to look around for anything else to stare at besides the attempted tonsil removal.

"Annnnnd…got you. Smile, you're on Candid Camera." Haruko snapped a picture with the camera Josh had loaned them; after deleting half the photos he had on it, mentioning something about a comic convention. "Hey, what're you looking away for?" She'd noticed his attention was directed at a very interesting uhm…uh…tree…

"It's been seven minutes now, not like I'm gonna miss anything I haven't seen."

"C'mon, it's a free, live-action show! Pay attention, maybe you'll learn something." She reached over and palmed the top of his head, turning it forward. "Notice how he's alternating between her lips, chin, _annnd_ neck. Variety's very important. Oh! Now this's…"

"Duly noted, thank you." Naota pulled his head free from her claw-like nails and turned to look out his window, face burning crimson. "Truly…fascinating…shoot me…"

"Awww, they're done." Haruko pouted as Craig revved his car again, this girlfriend in particular waving goodbye from her front porch. He took off in a squeal of rubber and cloud of dust, honking as he went. "Start us up, don't want to lose him!" Naota started up the truck, the radio clicking on as the motor turned over.

"…was a sweet little diddy, courtesy of yours truly, your buddy Beau! This's my Beat's Buffet, and have I got a selection for you! Next is one for those out on a lazy summer drive, just cruisin' 'round and up to no good. Let's give a shout-out to the fellows that cooked this one up, The George Baker Selection. Get it while it's hot, enjoy!"

"Five, three-five, three-five, three-five, five-three, three-fivvvee…five an' three-five, three-five, three-five, three-five, three-fivvveeeee…five-an'-three…" Naota called out the tabs while the bass thumped along, nudging his head to bob along with the beat.

 _*Yeaaaahhh…Lookin' back, on the track, for a little greeeen bag…_

 _Got to fiiinnnd, just the kind, for loosin' my mind…_

 _Outta sight, in the night…outta sight in the day-aayy-hayy…_

 _Lookin' back, on the track, gonna do it my way…_

 _Outta sight! In the night! Outta sight in the daaay-haay!_

 _Lookin' back, on the track, gonna do it my way!_

 _Look back!_

"Oh-three, five an' three-five, three-five, three-five, five-three, three-fiivvvee…five an' three-five, three-five, three-five, three-five, three-five…Ahhh!" Haruko took up the bass part as well, adding her own voice to the song.

"You know this one?" He asked, tailing Craig as he headed north across the Red Moshannon River and into Philipsburg. "I thought it'd be too low-key for someone's high-speed as you?"

"Are you kidding?" She gestured at the radio, while moving her fingers along an invisible fretboard. "This was one of the first tunes I learned on that Rickenbacker. Always love a good bass line, especially right at the intro."

"You know it's a good one when you can tell which song it is by the first few notes." He agreed, pulling over to wait for Craig to come back around. Trying to catch anyone that might be following him, Craig was in the habit of ducking into residential lots, making four left or right turns, then getting back to the road he was originally on. It would have been a great tactic, if Rig hadn't warned Naota about it, and how the best way to avoid it was to immediately stop. Two minutes later, the Craig-Cruiser emerged and continued north; unknowingly with Naota and Haruko five cars back.

 _Lookin' for some happiness, but there is only loneliness to fiiiiiinnnnnd…_

 _Jump to the leeeeft, turn to the right! Lookin' upstairs, lookin' behhhiinnnnd!_

 _Yeeaahh…_

"When did you start learning to play?" He asked, maybe this would be a chance to actually learn something about her.

"Mmm…'bout…six-ish I guess." She couldn't quite settle on a number. "Maybe five at the earliest, definitely seven by the latest. Yeah, six….and a half?"

"Let's say six and a quarter. So why did you start, always dreamed of being a rockstar diva? Parents get you started?"

"Kinda both. There's a lot of musicians in the Haruhara history, bit of a tradition really."

"Cool, cool…I'm really the only musical one. Dad's been known to lay down some karaoke; his voice's his instrument I guess. Any famous players in that Haruhara band, anyone I'd know?"

"No, no one you'd know. Ours is, music of a…different, kind." She kinda-sorta-half explained. "I don't know how to explain it, involves some really deep shit, y'know?"

"I don't know, but sure. Maybe you could play some?" He nodded at the double-necked guitar between them, propped half on the seat and half on her lap. Ever since the Scorpion and being used as target practice, Haruko had declared she was never leaving the guitar out of arm's reach ever again. He initially wanted to argue, to say how out of place she'd be with a double necked guitar slung across her back and how many weird looks they'd get; then decided there were _much worse_ things Haruko could do in public. So in the truck it rode. "C'mon, play me a bit. Is there a song or songs you family's passed down?"

"There's a few. But my guitar's not plugged into anything." She excused, holding up the body for him to inspect. "See? No cable. Nothin'. Nada."

"Know what I'm hearing? I'm hearing nothing but _excuses…_ " He jibed, speeding up to beat the yellow light and not get stuck at the intersection. Now Craig had circled back, headed for the Water Street Mobile Homes, down by the north side of the river. This was an interesting deviation, they had yet to follow him down this particular route. "Excusing yourself away…"

"Well you either play it right, or you don't play it at all." She defended. "I'm not going to do some half-assed, acoustic version. I need some amplification man!"

"Alright, fine, fine. Maybe if you talk nice to Rig, we can use the stereo in his basement."

"Stereo? In Rig's basement? And I'm only finding out now…because…?"

"Just didn't think to mention it." Craig had pulled into the driveway of the trailer closest to the river; at the very back of the park. Naota secured them a spot in the front office's parking lot that still maintained a full view of the trailer's door. Craig walked up to the door and hammered on its tin sheathing, all while texting away on his phone. The door opened and Craig stepped in, immediately closing it behind him.

"And now, we sit." Haruko summed up the situation.

"Yeeeep."

"And now, we wait."

"Yeeeep."

"For who knows how long."

"Uh-huh."

"All…alone."

"Uh-h…what?"

"There's all kinds of ways to pass the time…" Her voice dropped to a husky whisper, beckoning him to slide across the seat to her side.

"Goddamn it Craig, hurry the hell up!"

. . .

"Hey Craig, how's it hangin'?"

"Long, loose and full of juice!" Craig cackled, shutting the door behind him. "How's it goin' with you Clyde?"

"It's…well, it's going. The Man stopped by earlier, left a little surprise for you."

"Well then let's have it!" Craig followed Clyde through the kitchen and into the living room. On the coffee table was a wooden crate, stamped with black letters: U.S. ARMY ORDNANCE DEPT. "Oooohhh…I haven't gotten under the skirt yet, and I already love her."

"Don't open it here, pyro." Clyde ordered. "I don't want you torching my place."

"Oh, _lighten up_."

"Go fuck yourself man."

"Way ahead of you." Craig undid the crate's latch, opening it to see four rows of four cardboard tubes; sixteen green cylinders. He pulled one out, popping the top and shaking free a bright red can. Inscribed on its side in bold, black letters was its designation: AN-M14 INCEN. TH3

"Hey, what'd I just say?"

"Bro…I think my birthday just came early." Craig spun the can by the ring attached to its pin, then hooked it by its spoon onto his belt. "Check it, I'm two more of these and an M60 away from being Rambo."

"Whatever. Just get them out of here before you blow the place up or burn it down." Clyde sighed, then remembered something important. "You burned your orders right?"

"Yeah, of course." Craig had already forgotten. He replaced the can and its tube back into the crate. "I'm a responsible, grown-ass man, unlike some people." He picked up the crate and made ready to leave. "Hey, I'm just fuckin' with you man, you know that."

"I know, what're brothers for right?!" Clyde's rumbling laugh filled the trailer.

"Take it easy, see you Sunday at Cole's." Craig got the door cracked and used his shoulder to get it the rest of the way.

"Hey Craig…you have fun with those, you damn firebug."

"Oh, Brotatoe-chip…" Craig looked down at the crate in his arms like it was his firstborn child and fondly patted its lid. "I will. Don't you worry."

. . .

* * *

*Songs

*George Baker Selection - Little Green Bag

I had used Little Green Bag in the first version of this story, and couldn't leave it out this time around. With Naota and Haruko both being bass players, and the song having such a memorable opening bass line, it HAD to stay in. One thing I want to start expanding on Haruko's past and her own story. What shaped her? What were her influences? Where and how did she grow up? What made her battier than a belfry? You know, the important questions.

Oh, so you've met Craig Kauffman? He's a real treat, ain't he? Douche-canoe _indeed_. Just you wait, we ain't done with his philandering yet.

I'm really enjoying scenes with Medical Mechanica's Board of Directors and Security Council. Since we have no background on them, I get to write them pretty much however I dern well want; which's pretty dern cool. Especially when I can expand on their own world/society in the background, and little power struggles and petty differences between them. It makes them feel more...real, to me anyway.

Annnnd, that's that, for now. I'm gonna head out, the NASCAR race's on; they're racing in Texas tonight. However, it's raining there so the race's been delayed. So please, keep me entertained in the meantime with your reviews, and any suggestions, comments and what-not in the PM. Thank you again for bearing with my distractions, and of course, thank you for reading!


	8. Chapter 8

Alive! He's alive! He's...ALLIIIIVEEE! Whoa man, has it really been nearly two months since I updated? Well shoot, I'm awful sorry about that. During May I was lucky enough to vacation in Ecuador, an experience I highly recommend! But that means that month was shot for writing. June has been the busiest I've ever been at work, there were a few 50 hour weeks so writing took a back seat to getting up, going to work, and going back to bed haha! Anyway. You're not here to listen to my problems, you're here to read! And read you shall, the latest installment of Fooly-Cooly, a-la Pennsylvania. After a week of writers block in early June, I suddenly felt this surge of motivation come out of the ether. Hopefully it was as good in quality as it was in productivity, read on and let me know!

* * *

. . .

"How's the shoulder?" Rig asked, indicating for Naota to turn around. He did, and lifted up the back of his shirt.

"I dunno, how do you think it looks?"

"Sssssswwhhheeeewww….ouch." Rig whistled as he took in the spiderwebbed pattern of scabbed over, inflamed and tender in places, cuts from a pickup truck's windshield. They were remnants of Naota's battle with Medical Mechanica's Scorpion unit. A week and a half later it was still bothersome to sleep on his back, and bending too much at the waist risked pulling the cuts open. "That's all kinds of an ugly wound. What 'bout you, Mizz Haruko?"

"See for yourself." She pulled up the tail of her shirt, revealing skin marked by a collage of blacks and blues, splotched dark purple and encircled with sickly yellow. The bruises ran across her back from hip to hip, and from her beltline to halfway up her spine. The Scorpion's tail had left its own marks on her too. "Whaddah yah think? Prettly gnarly huh?"

"I think it's 'mazing your vertebrae didn't get powdered." Rig commented while Haruko and Naota compared their battle scars. "And how you're not in the hospital with a hardware store's worth of screws, pins and plates bolted to your spine."

"Heh, I've always landed on my feet." She let her shirt fall, then leaned to pull her guitar from the truck. Mindlessly strumming the bass portion, she added their past three days had been **_THE MOST_** boring she'd ever had to suffer.

"Why's that?" Rig put his weight against one of the office's columns. "I thought you and Naota being alone in a truck all day would be entertainment enough. Can't please some people…"

" _Because…_ Craig's deviated from his usual habits." Naota began, flipping through his own pocket notebook Rig had given him. He swore Rig had to have a desk drawer full of them. "Instead of trying to screw every female in town, and damn is he trying, he just…hung out."

"Hung out?" One of Rig's eyebrows went up. "W'all…that's not illegal; far's I know. When? Where? How long? With who?"

"That's the thing I can't figure out. He was parked in the mall, in front of Sarina's. And he just…watched traffic. For _hours._ " It was the strangest behavior they had seen out of Craig, and that was saying something. On the west side of Philipsburg, past the M4 Sherman tank war memorial that guarded uptown, was a row of gas stations, an auto parts dealer, an old hotel, the McDonalds, the strip mall with Sarina's at its end; closest to the Bigler Highway and where the railroad crossed it. It was at this bustling intersection Craig had stationed himself to watch the endless stream of tractor trailers, natural gas tankers and coal trucks. He appeared to be taking notes, but the only signs of life were occasional puffs of vaporizer fumes rolling out his car's windows.

"Uh-huh…" Rig was copying Naota's notes into his own pocket notebook. "That _is_ weird. I'm not sure what can be made of it; if anything."

"I just wanna know when I get to bust this guy's ass." Haruko had kept her peace 'till now. "I mean, hanging out with you's _super_ exciting and all…" She gave Naota her best sly smile, sticking her tongue out at him for good measure. He knew she must've been bored to tears sitting in the truck for hours on end. "But I think we've got enough to go on, bring him to the table."

"Ehh…that ain't gonna be enough." It was closing time at the shop. Josh, Mike and Johnny waved their goodbyes and drove off, all headed for home. Watching them leave, Rig elaborated. "What've you got? Some pics of him outside some girl's houses, just neckin'. Not exactly a gentlemanly thing…"

"But not illegal either." Naota realized what Rig was driving at. "We actually have to catch him doing something illegal."

"Ahhh yep. That'd be the size of it."

"Whatever he's gonna do, he'd better get a move on." Haruko grumbled, then struck a bum note on the bass half. "Then again…if he's doing observation on traffic, he's plotting a move. To do what, I'm not sure…but sommmeeethingg…definitely something…"

"Sure 'bout that?"

"You seem pretty confident about that."

"Oh Rig, and Naota, silly boys." She held up her left head, her N.O. detector rattled slightly on its bracket with a delicate tingle. "I'd bet this little guy that Craig's up to no good, right this very second."

. . .

"Okay, let's see…" Craig Kauffman was indeed up to, well, something anyway; math to be specific. "Axle's about six inches across, roughly, nineteen-ish in circumference; so nineteen inches per rotation. The truck's wheels are around two feet across, that'll be…twelve and a half feet. Putting that aside for a moment." He shifted his paper and started a new column. Math and computers had always been Craig's forte. Breaking his back, or a sweat even, as a miner or roughneck didn't suit him. A customized deck chair in a climate controlled office with his choice of secretaries to flirt with was more his style.

"Speed limit's thirty miles an hour, and I want thirty seconds of delay. That's…a quarter of a mile; one thousand, three hundred and twenty feet. Divide that by twelve and a half, one-oh-five-point six. Rounding up to one hundred and six rotations. Times that by nineteen inches, two thousand and six, and point four, inches. Divide by twelve…one hundred sixty seven, make it one hundred seventy to be safe. Okay." Craig finished his math and turned to the wooden crate sitting on his bed. "I need one hundred and seventy feet on line. No problem; easy-peasy."

. . .

Atomsk wasn't sure what had roused him from sleep. He'd awoken as if shocked, eyes snapping open. Blinking in the absolute dark of his coal-walled hiding place, he sniffed at the small breeze wafting from the entrance. It had the beginning wiffs of rising tension. Topside, all was still _mostly_ well; but something was slightly…off.

'It's like the first drop of a storm, one that arrives much too early. Instead of being heeded as a warning, it's not even minded; if noticed at all.' Feeling sleep creeping upon him again, he refolded his wings and settled back into repose. 'But then again…I have been wrong before. Perhaps this is one of those times?'

. . .

'Uh-huh…yeeeppp…yessir…mmm-hmm…just another day in the life…another chapter in the saga that is Naota Nandaba. Wasting my days, my youth, my good looks, vigor and stamina, wasting away in the Peeble's parking lot. Sitting here, watching the sexual Energizer Bunny of Philipsburg sit in his car and eat McMuffins. Why? I shall tell you. Because, for some odd reason, I've convinced myself that he's working for Medical Mechanica…what the hell's wrong with me?'

It was five 'till nine in the Peeble's department store parking lot, across the way from the McDonalds. Craig was parked next to the play area, polishing off his second sandwich and sipping coffee. It was so boringly normal that it was even beginning to get under Naota's skin. Just what in the hell was Craig doing, was he waiting for someone, something…anything?... _AAARRRRGGGGHHH!_

"I spy…with my little eye….sooooooooommmmmmmething…." Haruko wiggled and fidgeted in her seat, gazing 'round and 'round to find the most obscure object in her vision. "Something…green."

"Is that what we've come to? I Spy?"

"Got any better ideas?"

"Sitting quietly, reflecting on the troubles plaguing the world today, contemplating the meaning of life, quietly?"

"Or, or…I could practice my singing."

"Please no."

"He-hem. _Heh-HEM!_ Sssllluuuaaagghhhh…ahem."

"What're you doing? Really, please don't."

"Me-me-me-me-ME-Me-meeeee…."

"So, something green eh?"

"Green. Yes, something green."

"Alright…animal, plant, or a mineral?" While he aimlessly looked for something green, he spotted something red. Large, lumbering on ten wheels with the option for four more, and red. A Pike Natural Gas Co. tanker truck pulled off the Bigler Highway and into the McDonald's lot; in the spot right next to Craig. Now the smaller car was blocked from view by the massive truck. The driver hopped down from the cab and jogged inside the restaurant.

"Hey, we've lost our line of sight." Naota nudged a dozing Haruko.

"He hasn't driven off, has he?"

"No…" He picked up his own new pair of binoculars and put them to his eyes. "But I can't see what he's doing either."

"Here comes the driver, we'll be clear in a minute." The truck's driver walked out, coffee in one hand, bag of breakfast in the other. He climbed back into his truck, started up and turned back onto the highway with a new shadow. A few seconds later, Craig had followed suit and maintained a ten car distance from the truck.

"Now this's interesting." Haruko had the camera up and ready, just in case. "The Followed becomes a Follower himself; Hunted becomes the Hunter."

"Think he's following the Pike truck? Seems the least likely; he worked for Mister Dahl remember?" Naota had started up their own truck and they too were now in traffic, five cars behind Craig. "Could just be a coincidence?"

"Well, I mean, yeah, that could be. But you gotta admit that…Oh-ho-ho-holy shit!" Just one hundred yards ahead of them, the truck's cab began throwing showers of sparks from underneath it, white-hot lights that bounced across the pavement that were followed by a growing billow of flames that engulfed the entire cab. The driver, his vision obstructed by fire and smoke, swerved off the road and buried the truck nose first in the ditch. A smoking and screaming figure ejected itself from the truck, sprinting for the opposite side of the road through four packed lanes of rush hour traffic, waving his arms and bellowing the entire way.

"RUN! RUN! RUN GODDAMMIT!" He pleaded, now climbing the hill behind the strip mall. Naota took the advice, stomping on the gas and swung the truck around, then cut across traffic and fled back into the mall's parking lot. He wasn't alone, leading the pack of everyone with the presence of mind to put as much distance between them and the burning truck as possible. Feeling relatively safe enough, he stopped and opened his door to stand in the cab and look back. All that could be seen of the truck was now a raging pyre that belched a tarry black plume into the sky.

"Man, I hope the fire department gets here soon." He said, the entire truck and its tank were now charred black by the heat. "Are you getting this?"

"All on tape, we are live from P-Burg yo." Haruko had the camera in video mode, resting it on the truck's roof. "By-the-by, nice reaction time when the truck caught fire. You spun us right round in the middle of traffic and didn't even scratch the paint."

"Huh, I did, didn't I? Hadn't even noticed…" After the recent attempts on his life, it seemed a preemptive sense of self-preservation instince had finally kicked in. If only Haruko'd had the camera running in traffic, that would've been pretty damn cool. "It's funny how that works, when you do something cool and you don't even notice."

"Psshhhh…Nao' please." She gave him an unconvinced side-stare, eyebrows disappearing under her own G&R hat. "And you say I haven't changed. Still convinced you're Mr. Ice Cold, too cool for school?"

"Whaaat? Me? No, I…" His defense was interrupted by a brilliant flash, a grey line of an incoming shockwave rushed past them and shook as the truck as it went by, followed immediately by an eardrum rupturing **_BBBBOOOOOMMMMmmmm…_** The tanker truck had finally boiled over, pieces of it now rained down on the parking lot as flaming, metallic hail; starting even more fires as some of the cars within the fallout zone were torched by red hot debris.

"Uh. Hey, Naota." Haruko began scanning the area, climbing into the truck's bed for a higher view. "I'm gonna ask what sounds like a stupid question…"

"Uh-huh?" He said, reaching for his ringing phone. Everyone in the county must have heard the explosion; and it was surely someone from G&R on the other end demanding to know what had just blown up. "What's that?"

"Do you see Craig anywhere?"

"Ohhhh…goddammit." In all the chaos, and now the fog of smoke smothering the area, Craig had made his getaway.

. . .

'Man, would you look at that…what a blaze…' Craig admired his handiwork from afar. He found himself transfixed as the fires grew, cars in nearby lots blazing fiercely, the woods along the ditch and across the railroad were beginning to catch, black as death smoke roiled up the hillside against a fore-front inferno of reds, yellows, orange and copper; greedily devouring, melting and scorching. His reverie was broken by the passing fire engines, their sirens and bells snapping him from his live action fantasy.

'And there goes the Buzzkill Squad. But hey, if they wanna put out fires for a living, I'll make sure they stay in a job.' He restarted his car, watching with a smug grin as the trucks slowed to cross an intersection. 'You'd better watch yourselves, foreplay's over.'

. . .

"Fire crews have determined the cause of the natural gas tanker explosion in Philipsburg. The incident took place during rush hour, just two days ago. They discovered trace signatures of thermite, a compound typically used by the military for sabotage, or metal workers and demolition crews for cutting of structural supports. Because of the fire and explosion, investigators cannot be completely sure of how the initial fire was started. Their theory is someone secured a device to the truck in proximity to its fuel tanks, and either remotely detonated it or used a cable attached to an axle to pull a pin, or ignite a fuse to set off the main charge. Police are treating this case as criminal and will be launching an investigation. Charges could include, and are not limited to: arson, sabotage, destruction of private and public property, manufacture of an explosive device, use of illicit explosive, theft of explosive material, malicious mischief, and attempted murder if that is found relevant. Currently the police have not named any suspects, but are looking into persons of interest. Anyone with potential leads is urged to contact the Philipsburg Police Department, the Clearfield County Sheriff's Office, the Pennsylvania State Police, or Crime Stoppers, to leave an anonymous tip. That's all for our local news, and here's Mike with an update on the presidential election debates…"

. . .

"George. Thomas. Jeff." Mr. Welshman greeted the three Carsons. It was the dead of Monday night at the Welshman Mining Company employee cafeteria. Built to seat shifts on one hundred workers at a time, all five hundred and seventy three had crammed themselves inside. The ranks present ran the gamut from supervisor and foremen down the ladder to the janitorial staff. "Who's gonna be doing the talking?"

"I will. Most of it anyway." Tommy answered. He held no flashcards, no notes in his hands, and had not asked for a projector and screen. "Where's the best spot to stand?"

"Over there, on top of the front table." Mr. Welshman directed. "You need anything, all set?"

"Just your men's attention is all." Tommy smiled. "I'm ready whenever they are."

"Alright then." Mr. Welshman climbed onto one of the tables, hooked his pinky fingers into the corners of his mouth and gave a sharp whistle. At their Boss's signal, all chatter immediately ceased and all eyes turned front and center. Mr. Welshmans's personality may be best described as 'prickly', but his men heeded him when he spoke.

"Listen up! Now, we all told our wives that this was a mandatory safety meeting. You all have probably figured out that's really not why we're here. Before we get into this, it should not need mentioning, but not _a word_ , of what gets said here, leaves here. No tellin' your old lady, your drinkin' buddies, not even the Priest at confession. If he don't ask, you don't have to tell. Does anyone have a problem understanding that?" No hands were raised. "Good. And, if _anyone_ turns into a Chatty Cathy, they and I will have a chat of our own in my office with the door locked. Is this all abundantly clear?"

"Yes, Mister Welshman!" The crowd rumbled in well-practiced unison.

"Well Tommy…they're all yours."

"Thank you Mister Welshman." Tommy took Mr. Welshman's place on top of the table. After a quick survey of his audience, he cleared his throat and began to talk.

"Good evening everyone. Most of you know my family name, but for those unfamiliar, I am Tommy Carson, this is my father George, and my cousin Jeff. The reason we've asked you to give up your Monday evening is not for scheduling the Christmas part or any of that _sensitivity_ training. It does however, relate to your safety, and the lives and well-being of everyone you hold dear." With those opening remarks, Tommy had every ear in the room tuned solely to him. "With that in mind, and before we go on, please know this. If, at any time, you feel uncomfortable or want to leave, right now if you want, you are not obligated to stay. Most of what I am going to say is going to upset you. This is purely on a voluntary basis. If there are no complaints…then I'll dive right in." No hands were raised at this time either, and no one vacated the room, so Tommy pressed on.

"You have been approached by your supervisor, or Mr. Welshman personally, about something that you probably have trouble believing. Yes, that's right. I'm talking about the Aliens, about Medical Mechanica." A series of quiet murmurs swept across the hall. Each man turned to his neighbor, asking if he'd had the same conversation, and if so, could the story really be true? They had no reasons to doubt the words of their foremen, of the Boss himself, but it seemed much too outlandish to be real. Tommy waved his hand for quiet.

"I know this raises a lot of questions, so I'll try to preemptively answer as many as I can. First, no, this is not a joke, no we are not taking any drugs, and we do not possess a single tin-foil hat. George, Jeff, myself, and those that work with G&R Fab are part of a global, and interplanetary network called Overwatch. It was set up to act as a defensive, reactionary force to detect, contain and eliminate covert Medical Mechanica takeovers of planets. We are independent of the government, except for a select few in the Black Operations community. The U.N., not even the president himself, knows we even exist. We do this to prevent leaks and inciting panic. Our numbers are relatively few, and we call upon the co-inhabitants of our planets for aide when the need arises. We're not some Agenda Twenty-One, New World Order, take-over-the-planet buncha Bond villains; we're on your side and want to help you help yourselves. I realize I just threw a lot at you, so let's stop for a moment and take a few questions. Honesty's the best policy, we don't want anyone feeling lied to. So, who has a question?" Every single hand in the room shot up. Tommy's eyes went wide at the sea of raised arms. "Oooookaaaayyy…right. Let's see…Rig, put your hand down. Uh…" Tommy recognized someone in the front row. "Baker! What's on your mind?"

"Okay, so…what exactly, _IS_ Medical Mechanica?"

"A good question, with no good answer. Here is what we know. They are a manufacturing conglomerate of anything under the suns, but deal primarily in military and defense; large robotic fighting units are their specialty. It is their business to arm, defend and expand the influence of their sister planets; all part of a group calling themselves 'The Red Star of The Solar Federation'. M-M's primary weapon, their big gun, is what we call an Iron; and is really the reason we're here. Yes, Wooten?"

"What do, Irons, do?"

"Let's put a pin in that one, we'll get to it in a moment. Everyone's heard what happened to Roman's and what happened to Mister Roman himself? All those stories and rumors? How they've sealed it off, that a new paramilitary security force is running things now?" Heads in the room nodded. The Rumor Mill had been working overtime, theories were running rampant; especially when the reports that a gun battle had been overheard on the grounds. But they all agreed on one thing, and that was all was not well within those company gates. "That is all because Roman's is now Medical Mechanica's newest branch office."

This caused the largest discomfort so far, seven men stormed out. After a few moments, ten more followed. The rest, although shifting nervously, remained. Morbid curiosity bound them in place trying to guess what could possibly come next. Finding his voice, a miner called out from the middle of the crowd. He asked why they should care, what the big deal was.

"I mean, what're they gonna do? Take over the world or something? Hey, the government already listens to our phone calls, reads our emails and generally treats us like shit already…so how would this be any different?"

"I was hoping you'd ask." Tommy nodded at Wooten from earlier. "This's where your question about the Irons comes in. And again, if anyone wants to leave, you're not obligated to stay. This'll be really uncomfortable to hear."  
"Then stop pussin' 'round about it and just say it! We're not a bunch of social justice warrior cunts!" Someone in the crowd yelled out. "We can take it!"

"Alright. Whooo…The reason you should care, is because if Medical Mechanica takes over, every single one of us in this room is a dead man walking. And that would be the good news."

"That's the _good_ news?!"

"We've seen this happen one too many times, both through observations and spies that have been smuggled onto planets under M-M control." Tommy paused to uncap his tobacco tin, dip, chew, and spit into the trashcan at the table's end. "Here's how it'll go down. They will activate their Iron, which sends out some sort of waves or pulses, we don't know how they work. These waves or pulses will turn ninety percent of people's brains into grey pudding. They'll be alive, can walk and talk, follow simple directions, but will have no will of their own. It'll be a planet of mindless drones. The few unaffected will be quickly hunted down by M-M's military, and after a meager resistance, be killed. Now, I said we'd all be dead men walkin'. That's because every military aged male sixteen and up will be executed. We will be considered too great of a potential risk and have to be eliminated. Most of the women, those past child bearing age, will go the same way. After that, we can only hazard guesses, but our suspicions are well founded. They will start stripping the planet for its resources, think strip mining on a global scale. And they really like planets like ours for our water. This will be amplified using the planet's population as slave labor, working each generation 'till death. The lucky ones, if you can call it that, will be some of the later generations born under M-M's rule. They will have no knowledge of the past, and will be groomed as new followers of The Red Star of The Solar Federation. They will become the new soldiers, the bureaucrats, doctors, engineers, lawyers, they will be model citizens. The idea will be to use them as minders of their own species, to make M-M's management work easier. These generations will happily, willingly and loyally to the pain of death, protect, love and serve the organization that murdered their ancestors and destroyed their planet. And that, my fellow Pennsylvanians, is why you should care."

Sccrrrraaaaapppeee…ssccrrrrrrraaaapppee…ssccrrraaaapppeeeeee…th-thud, th-thud, th-thud…creeeeaakkk…BANG! That was the sound of a miner pushing back his chair, standing and pushing the chair back in. Then, the dense footfalls of metatarsal boots echoed off the concrete floors. Lastly was the door rasping open and then slamming shut behind the miner as he reached his limit. This pattern was repeated forty times. Each departee was silently watched by a crowd struck dumb by the new paradigm.

Extermination. That's essentially what it would be for them, the miners realized. They would be lead off to gas chambers, or incinerators, or meat grinders to become Soylent Green, a pre-dug mass grave, or simply machine gunned down in an open field and left to rot. The means didn't really matter since the end was all the same. But that paled next to what would come after they were gone.

Their thoughts leaped to the tiny pictures in their wallets. Screensavers on their phones and computers. Some had folded up drawings of scribbled crayon, kept in sealed plastic bags and stowed in shirt pockets or the liner or a hard hat. Most drawings showed a cube shaped house, hash-drawn grass and a stick figure family next to crooked letters spelling: I love you Daddy! Be safe!

What a future for their children, let alone the human race. Daughters bred to churn out new workers. Sons possibly digging coal like their fathers before them, but for all the wrong reasons. Not to provide a better life for their family, but as a slave to fuel a machine that had put the chains on him to begin with. And then, the nerve, the gall, the fucking twisted sadism of taking a child and raising it to blindly serve the monsters that had murdered its ancestors. Even going as far as installing them as overseers of their fellow humans; the slaves minding the slaves so that master's work was all the easier.

But there still lingered doubts, fear still gnawed at their otherwise bold hearts, hesitation held normally outspoken tongues. Why them, why would anyone reveal this truth to them? And if they were to fight back for their survival, was there even a minuscular chance of them succeeding?

"So why us Carson?"

"Why not you?" Tommy tossed the question back. "You're strong and fit from twelve hour shifts. You have practice mastering fear and working under extreme duress by crawling into the crushing womb of the Earth; with nothing but a respirator and a flashlight at times. You all know these mountains, their every hidden secret. You know the twists and turns of the roads and two-tracks, every face, building, and brick in your towns. Every fall you practice patience and stealth, creeping through the rhododendron and mountain laurel for that one perfect shot at a deer; and will sit for hours in blowing snow with numbing fingers to ensure that shot. Your family trees are as bloodstained as mine. Your ancestors and mine fought for this country's independence in The Revolution, then again to keep its sovereignty in The War of Eighteen Twelve. A third time to keep the country from ripping in half during The Civil War. Our grandfathers and great grandfathers fought and helped defeat twice, one of the best militaries on the planet. Does the same blood flow in you that flowed and stained the slopes of Blair Mountain?!"

A few more men had quit the room, but the five hundred even that remained nodded in great enthusiasm. Intrigue had turned to fear, morphed to dread, manifested itself as anger, then whipped up by Tommy's rhetoric became a white-hot rage. Where the FUCK, did this Medical What's-it's-shit, get off thinking they could just up and invade their planet; sneaking and spying and using some cowardly mind control instead of conquering the old fashioned way. Man-to-man. In fact, many of them were remembering a shotgun in their closet or a family hunting rifle over the mantle, and were of half a mind to drive up to Roman's right that moment and reenact that Battle of Blair Mountain with a modern day twist.

"Then why don't we just go and kick their fuckin' asses right now?!" This shouted demand was accompanied by cheers and hollers. "I ain't gonna be lead willingly into some gas chamber, and I'll be dammed if my kids spend so much as a single minute as slaves."

"That…now that…Mister Hauck…is exactly the kind of enthusiasm we want to hear." George now spoke, his task made much easier by Tommy's dramatic opening. "That enthusiasm, but we gotta temper it a bit, 'cause I guarantee if all of us headed for Roman's right now, we'd never make it. The State Troopers, the Sheriff and deputies, and the local P.D.'s would meet us halfway through Black Moshanon, and we wouldn't get out of those woods alive."

"Wait, so the cops are with these M-M guys too?!"

"We don't have a picture of them shaking hands, but historical precedent screams a solid yes." George answered and a series of angry murmurs crossed the crowd.

"Motherfuckers…I fuckin' knew it…"

"Sooo…what then?" Another miner piped up. "If the cops aren't on our side, what're our odds? Do we even have time to figure that, or some sort of plan, out?"

"Actually, time is something that's on our side. Jeff, if you would?" George indicated to the table. Jeff took a silver disk from his pocket and laid it on the table, pressing the button at its center. _Bl-blip!_ The disk chirped as it started up, displaying a six foot tall, living color holographic display of the Iron at Roman's Mine. Jeff took the table this time, slipping on a pair of gloves with inlaid wires across the palms, inside the fingers and ending in pads at his fingertips.

"Alright gennellmen! If you'll lend me your attention…" Jeff clapped his hands together, then flung them apart to scale up the Iron to twenty feet tall. Now everyone including those in the back could see. "It's my turn. This is Medical Mechanica's railroad gun, their Little Boy, their B.F.G. for you Doom players…an Iron; or what will someday become one. Right now, it's only a partial skeleton frame, and that's a good thing because it means we still have time." Jeff folded his hands together, collapsing the Iron and its cavernous hideaway upon itself. Spreading his arms wide, the entirety of Roman's Mine was rendered in vivid color, those in the front row could make out individual trees and tire tracks in the hologram. "This is a compilation of pictures I've taken over the past week and a half, all to make this model. What you can see, is a series of new buildings here, here, and here, but also a fully functioning mine. M-M can't bring all their resources with them. They need coal, natural gas, iron and carbon for steel, water and other resources; all that Roman's and…" Jeff clapped his hands twice, the pulled them apart, fingers splayed out. Roman's shrank and disappeared into a top-down view of the surrounding counties. A circular ring of brightly colored areas stood out against the green of trees; seven areas in fact. "All seven other major operations, being Solomon, King, Voyze, Pike, Chartier, and your very own Welshman have in common. And, what's worse, is since you're practically neighbors of Roman's, I expect you'll be next on their list. Think the E.P.A. and Greenpeace is bad? A genocidal juggernaut, coming soon to a work site near you! But that begs the question: who are Medical Mechanica, specifically?"

"You mean, like, the soldiers?"

"Exactly!" Jeff collapsed the satellite view, then knelt to place his right hand on the disk. "And here's one now!" Pinching his thumb and index finger together, Jeff pulled a Medical Mechanica Marine helmet first from the disk, then lightly placed him at his side. At five foot, six inches tall, clad head to toe in his ballistic plates and armor, armed with FN SCAR-H and Five-Seven, face obscured by goggles, respirator and helmet, the life-like apparition cause a few chairs to screech backwards.

"Whoa, whoa, hey! I know he looks spooky, but let's see what we're dealing with. He doesn't have some storm trooper blaster, or vortex cannon, just an FN SCAR-H and Five-Seven pistol. He doesn't have any portable force-field or plasma shield, just your unremarkable ballistic plates outside a suit of soft Kevlar armor. His average height is a good three inches shorter than yours…" Jeff walked around the M-M Marine, pointing out weak points in the seemingly impenetrable shell of intimidation. "Specially designed lenses on his goggles so our Sun's wavelengths of UV radiation don't roast his eyeballs in their sockets, and finally, a constantly affixed respirator because they're unaccustomed to our atmosphere."

"Wait, so if we rip their respirators off…they can't breathe here?"

"Most likely. The atmospheres on their planets and ours aren't perfect matches. Until they are here long enough to adjust, if they can at all, they have to filter our air." Jeff explained and that little sliver of information seemed to have a profound effect on the miners. So, the monsters weren't so terrifying after all, they weren't towering ten foot tall behemoths, and couldn't even handle Earth's air. Maybe, just maybe, they thought, there was a chance after all.

"As we sit here, there's roughly a thousand of these schmucks hanging out on our turf. I want you to know they're beatable, but to keep some realism in mind. These guys are well trained, well disciplined, have some of the best equipment money can buy, are shoveled supplements and genetic modifications at first and second breakfasts, elevensies, lunch, tea, dinner, and supper, are exceedingly intelligent…and as far as we know, have never lost a battle to boot. But, we do have a few things goin' for us."

"And what're those?"

"First, as mentioned, time. It takes on average a year to build an Iron, and that's when they aren't being shot at. Second, we know the terrain inside and out, and we also know the weather. Winter is going to royally mess with their schedule. Third is our numerical advantage. With your help and commitments from the other mines and gas companies, we can easily outnumber them three to one. Fourth is our resources. I mentioned how M-M cannot bring all of their equipment with them, and all of their weaponry they appear to have purchased domestically. That means, if we can cut them off, they'll run out of supplies; eventually. Also, our Second Amendment already sees us armed, so we are not as defenseless as other planets that have fallen to M-M. Last, and most important, our will to see any fight to its end. To this Marine, this's just another planet, another rock to plant their flag. To us, to you, it's our everything; all we've ever known, and everything that will ever be. I truly pity whoever would be so recklessly stupid to ever try and take something like that without expecting the most vicious and fanatical resistance they could have never imagined. The crimson tsunami of The Red Star may tower mighty and tall, but it will dash itself to ribbons on the jagged edges of our Pennsylvanian shale!"

. . .

'Almost done, this'll be my piece de resistance!' Craig smirked as he secured a thermite grenade to the bridge's truss support. He had been having a banner week. Five natural gas trucks had been destroyed, a blaze started at a coal yard that had burned for eight hours and blotted out the noonday sun, and four residences of Dahl's supervisors had been reduced to ash. Mysteriously, all four of the houses had been empty when Craig had come calling. No one had been home at any of them, and he suspected it had been realized the kind of targets being chosen, so the supervisors had skipped town. It didn't matter to him if they had gotten wise, someone tipped them off, or they had just gotten lucky. If he got to watch a hand built house fold in on itself as the central supports burned away, it was a great day. But now, the evening 9:15 train was coming through, headed for power plants across the country with a load of Welshman, Solomon, King and Voyze coal. He was confident the train would never leave the county.

'Last one…' Craig sauntered back to the crate, left at the first support, whistling while he walked. "Hey, what gives?" The last tube, grenade number sixteen, was empty. "The hell…" He kicked around the bushes, peered around the concrete bases of the bridge supports. "Goddammit. Well, I got three on and locked up. That oughta do, I'm no engineer, but it should work." He did some rough mental math, leaning back to look up at the railroad bridge towering overhead. It was a crisscrossed web of wrought iron beginning to show its age with rust patches and groaning under its own weight. This bridge had definitely seen better days. Now that he was out of grenades, he'd have to request new supplies from the Man in Black…or use some other talents of his own. He'd think of potentials on the drive home. In the meantime, this bridge needed to come down.

'Time to get the hell outta here…in three…two…one!' Craig gathered the tethers tied to each grenades pin, and pulled. _Cling! Cling! Cling!_ The grenade's spoons popped off and Craig took off, jumping into his waiting car and drove the winding two-track along the valley's bottom. Waterfalls of burning sparks and pools of molten metal flashed behind him as the thermite bit into the aging iron. And, over the whine of his car's engine, he could just hear the whistle of an oncoming train…

. . .

"C'mon Naota! Put some effort into it!" Haruko chided. "It's like you're not focused at all today."

"Workin' on it, would appreciate some patience on your part." Naota growled back, frowning in concentration.

"We don't have all day, and hey, how about some enthusiasm for a change?"

"Look, if you want to pay for smashing up G&R's truck because I put it in the river, be my guest." They had lost Craig, again, and were following his tire tracks down a narrow, twisting valley. Ahead a railroad trestle loomed across their vision.

"Well…okay then. Grump-y…" She hugged, leaning out her window. "How big's the burr up your ass today?"

"Sorry…I'm, well, it's two things. We lost Craig, which's annoying, obviously. But what's bugging me is how much longer we have to follow me? I mean, what does he have to do for Rig to give us the go-ahead? Blow up a school?"

"Funny you bring him up…" Her voice had changed, that strange, level tone. No snark or sarcasm…even seriousness. "Don't you think he's just, I dunno, kinda odd?"

"Oh, that's an understatement." He laughed, recalling some of his friend's eccentricities. "He'll get into arguments with himself, and lose."

"No, no. Not that." She corrected. "I mean, _this._ Medical Mechanica. Doesn't he, and everyone else at work, seem a little _too_ chill with the whole affair? A little too eager to help you?"

"That's what friends do, they help each other out when they've got problems. Maybe you could take notes, learn from the example."

"Ehhh…" She sighed, but it sounded like there was more on her mind than what she was saying.

"Ehhh? Ehhh? Ehhh what?"

"Just an ehhh-ehhh." She dismissed.

"I, I can't make anything out of that."

"Oh never mind." She let it go and started to bring up something else up, but was cut off by a shrieking whistle.

'Damn that's loud!' He thought as the train blew its whistle with a deafening _WHHHOOOAAAAaaaaaammmm…_ Half a mile ahead, the train began crossing the bridge with its cars loaded down with one hundred tons of coal each. The engine made it across, but something didn't sit right with Naota, or Haruko either it seemed.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, which I'm not…" Haruko had noticed it too. "But generally, bridges aren't s'posed to move like that are they?"

. . .

For the train's engineer, it had been a normal day so far. He'd picked up the empty cars from the rail yard, made the rounds to fill the cars and was headed for Pittsburgh with a mile long payload. All he was worried about was the bane of this route: a rickety wrought iron trestle from the steam era. The engine made it over without trouble, but as the cars rumbled across, he could feel a trembling through his boots. The engineer look back out his window and, to his helpless horror, bore witness to his train rolling off the tracks from its middle out. Before he could leap clear of the engine, all one hundred and ten tons of it was snapped to its side and began tumbling down the hillside. Its immense weight crushed any trees in its path, tossing the engineer round and round inside the cab, slamming him from ceiling to floor, wall to wall, off the windows and rear bulkhead before coming to a final, groaning stop a full minute later.

Picking himself up off what had been the ceiling, the engineer realized his left arm was broken, dangling limply four inches lower than normal from his shoulder. Caught in the tumbler of the rolling engine's cab, he'd fully expected to be dashed against the steel and his skull broken open while the horizon flipped circles through the windows. Through the cracked glass, he could smell leaking fuel, and made his exit through the upside down door. A quick look around showed a mountainside of trees snapped off at ground level, and a hill carpeted solid black with coal and the air darkened by dust. Farther back, the bridge was no longer visible, reduced to a splintered pile of scrap beams buried under smashed coal cars. Now the engineer smelled smoke, and turned around to see his engine had caught fire and the flames were beginning to spread across the dried timber and spilled coal. Stumbling as quickly as his throbbing arm would allow, he began making his way towards the road, fighting the urge to pass out, and hoping he could out-walk the fire.

. . .

"Okay, let's run over the list to make sure our numbers are right."

"Sure thing Mister Griggs. Ah-hem. The newly formed Irregular Pennsylvanian Army humbly requests the following materials:" I scanned the list once more before reading.

· 2,000 AK-47 rifles

· 400 Remington 870 shotguns in 2 ¾" length 12-gauge

· 300 Military Armament Corporation Model 10 submachine guns in 0.45ACP

· 200 Remington M700 rifles in 0.308 caliber, with 12-power Leupold scopes

· 50 M82A1 Barrett anti-material rifles in 0.50BMG

· 25 FN M240B light machine guns in 0.308 caliber

· 25 M2 Browning heavy machine guns in 0.50BMG

· 3,000 Ruger P90 pistols in 0.45ACP

· 3,000 standard assorted sizes of Class III body armor

· 3,000 standard assorted sizes of Class III Kevlar helmets

· 3,000 pairs of elbow and knee pads

· 3,000 pairs of reinforced combat gloves

· 3,000 standard assorted sizes of rucksacks and load bearing systems

· 3,000 standard assorted sizes of pistol belts

· 3,000 combat first aid and trauma kits

· 500 field surgeon and/or E.M.T. kits

· 3,000 entrenching tools

· 12,000 Mk. II fragmentation grenades

· 6,000 M15 white phosphorous grenades

· 13,000 pounds of TNT, and/or C4, detonators, wiring and blasting caps

· 2,000,000 rounds of 7.62x39mm

· 300,000 rounds of 12-guage 2 ¾" 00-buckshot

· 300,000 rounds of 12-guage 2 ¾" Buckhammer shotgun slugs

· 1,250,000 rounds of 0.45ACP

· 500,000 round of 7.62x51mm

· 500,000 rounds of 0.50BMG

· 3,000 Buck 119 knives

· 3,000 shatterproof, no-fog, full-seal goggles

· 3,000 personal two-way radios with headset, transmitter/receiver and battery

· 3,000 M50 gas masks

· 6,000 spare M50 gas mask spare filters

· 50 M79 grenade launchers in 40mm

· 2,500 40mm high-explosive grenades

· 5 M20 Recoilless rifles in 75mm

· 500 75mm HEAT shells

· Associated cleaning kits, accessories, manuals, magazines and spare parts for each weapon system

"And a partridge in a pear tree…" Agent Griggs double checked our Christmas list. We now had commitments from the rest of our allies; once our presentation had been repeated six more times! That's a lottah talking for two days. All-in-all, the breakdown of volunteers per company went like this:

· Welshman – 500

· Solomon – 700

· King – 400

· Pike – 300

· Dahl – 350

· Voyze – 400

· Chartier – 350

Total that up, and you have a force of angry, pissed-off blue-collars making up the 3,000 strong Irregular Pennsylvanian Army. This was George's order, the locally based response to Medical Mechanica; a show of force from the average people of the area M-M had picked to set up shop. Even with their enthusiasm, we were sorely lacking in equipment, armor, heavy weapons, ammunition, training…everything basically. So George, Tommy and I were having a zero-dark thirty meeting with Agent Griggs. We were hoping he could deliver what we were asking for, and bring some good news while he was at it. I know, that's a lot to ask of the man. Yah gottah understand the context though, this was after Naota an' Haruko had brought footage of the derailed train west of town. They also documented the resulting inferno that had burned down 200 acres of forest before it had mercifully started raining. The engineer had gotten clear in time, so Craig still hadn't managed to kill anyone. We'd intercepted his orders, and were able to warn those on his hit list. Still, he needed to be dealt with before he did kill someone, even if by accident. Anyway…where was Ah? LINE!

(Agent Griggs and the I.P.A.'s wish-list…)

You're payin' 'ttention. I like that. You'll go far.

"When can we expect delivery?" Tommy asked as Agent Griggs thumped his attache case on the desk. "Or will we have to go pick everything up? That won't be an issue, but we need everything sooner rather than later." Waiting for Agent Griggs to answer, Tommy took his orange bottle of pills from his pocket and downed two with coffee; shuddering as they dropped into his stomach.

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves." Agent Griggs extracted his own list. "Here's what Uncle Sam, and the fine folks of the Galactic Government, and Overwatch central, can offer; especially on such short notice."

"Let's see here…" George took the list, tiltin' his head back to read through the lower half of his bifocals. "Uh…Griggs?"

"Uh…yeah?"

"Is…is, uh…is this it?" Uh-oh. That's not a good sign.

"Can I see?" I was passed the paper and was blessed to be sitting down. Here is what we were expected to fight 1,000 Medical Mechanica Marines, and an additional 1,000 and change assorted police forces with: (The audacity of it all, I tell yah what!)

· 800 AK-47 rifles

· 300 Remington 870 shotguns in 2 ¾" length 12-gauge

· 50 Remington M700 rifles in 0.30-06 caliber with 12-power Leupold scopes

· 5 M82A1 Barrett anti-material rifles in 0.50BMG

· 5 M1919A4 light machine guns in 0.30-06

· 1,750 Ruger P90 pistols in 0.45ACP

· 1,000 standard assorted sizes of Class III body armor

· 1,000 standard assorted sizes of Class III Kevlar helmets

· 3,000 pairs of elbow and knee pads

· 3,000 pairs of reinforced combat gloves

· 3,000 standard assorted sizes of rucksacks and load bearing systems

· 3,000 standard assorted sizes of pistol belts

· 1,200 combat first aid and trauma kits

· 200 field surgeon and/or E.M.T. kits

· 3,000 entrenching tools

· 2,000 Mk. II fragmentation grenades

· 2,000 M15 white phosphorous grenades

· 1,000,000 rounds of 7.62x39mm

· 150,000 rounds of 12-gauge 2 ¾" 00-buckshot

· 150,000 rounds of 12-gauge 2 ¾" Buckhammer shotgun slugs

· 750,000 rounds of 0.45ACP

· 250,000 round of 0.30-06 caliber

· 250,000 rounds of 0.50BMG

· 3,000 Buck 119 knives

· 3,000 shatterproof, no-fog, full-seal goggles

· 3,000 personal two-way radios with headset, transmitter/receiver and battery

· 3,000 M50 gas masks

· 3,000 spare M50 gas mask spare filters

"Hey, look, I know times are tight and all." Tommy was reading over my shoulder. "But this isn't even half of what we need. What gives? And what're we supposed to do with only a thousand sets of body armor? We've got three thousand guys...do they just draw straws?"

"You know well's I that Earth isn't the only planet with a pest problem." Agent Griggs leaned back into the couch, further rumpling an already wrinkled suit. He gulped down some of his coffee, somehow managing to look even more exhausted than before a shot of sugar and caffeine. I didn't envy his job in the least, especially with those sunken eyes framed by growing purple rings. "And we have our own wars going on here domestically. Iraq, Syria, Jordan, Turkey, Yemen, Pakistan, Afghanistan, Egypt, Somalia, Niger, Zimbabwae, Rwanda, Chad, Colombia, Nicaragua, Venezuela…all of those are also clamoring for guns. The problem is, since we are so low key that also puts us closer to the bottom of the priority list; among other reasons. I'm sorry it's not what you want, but it's what I can get on this kind of notice. More will come, but it'll take time; red tape and all those hoops to jump through."

"Gotta love government bureaucracy." George shook his head, supplies and resources have always been an issue for Overwatch. Of the three branches, the G.S.P.B., the I.I.B., and Overwatch, we're at the bottom of the list. "The major problem we're having, and why we need so much equipment, is the variety of guns our guys have. Some have either an AK-47 or AR-15, but not in enough numbers to be effective. Several more have hunting rifles, but we run into a supply problem there."

"How's that?"

"Mr. Griggs, imagine if you will." I explained our logistical nightmare. "Trying to supply ammunition to an army that carries rifles in 0.223 NATO, 0.22-50 Remington, 0.220 Swift, 0.243 Winchester, 0.30-30 Winchester, 0.300 Savage, 0.25-06 Remington, 0.270 Winchester, 0.308 NATO, 0.30-06 Springfield, 7mm Win-Mag, 300 Weatherby, 0.338 Win-Mag, 0.375 H&H, 0.44 Marlin, 0.450 Bushmaster, 0.45-70 Government, you see tha pattern here?"

"I think so…"

"And even more guys have shotguns at home, varying from 12-gauge, up to 16, 20, 28-gauge; and one guy even had a 10-gauge. I have no idea where he buys his ammo. Then all the shotguns come in different shell lengths, 2-inch, 2 ½, 2 ¾, 3-inch 3 ½ magnum…pistols are no better. 0.25ACP 0.32's, 0.35's 0.380 Auto, 7.62mm Tokarev 0.38 Special, 0.357 magnums, 9x18 Makarov, 9x19 Luger, 0.357 Sig-Sauer, 10mm Auto, 0.40 S&W, 0.41 Action Express, 0.44 Special, 0.44 Magnum, 0.45ACP, 0.45 Long Colt, 0.454 Casull, 0.50 Action Express, 0.500 Magnum…"

"Rig, he gets it, thank you." George cut off my gun-nerd rant. When you hand load your own ammunition like I do, sometimes you can get carried away. Whoops.

"What Rig is trying to say, is that we were hoping to consolidate our supply down to as few calibers as possible." Tommy explained while reading Griggs list; mentally rearranging the training plans he'd stashed away in his head.

"We'll take whatever you can bring us." George said, checking the clock. It was time to start work. "We'll have to beg, borrow or steal the rest."

"Don't get too carried away with that stealing part." Agent Griggs began to pack up. "Besides, you're not giving yourselves enough credit. Why have you bothered with all these tools and fab equipment if you don't use any of it?" The thought had not occurred to us. Looking at each other, I could see gears already turning, ideas for a home built arsenal starting to form. "Ahhh…I know those looks. You've got something, haven't you?"

"Ah half a dozen of this 'n' that." I said, jotting some potentials into my notebook.

"I'll leave you to it then. I have to get back to D.C. and finalize your arms package. While I'm there, I'll see if anything else can be dragged out of the powers that be." He promised as I opened the office door for him.

"Anything you can get, anything at all, we'll take it." George restated. "We'll take anything that goes bang. Even…" He was interrupted by the phone's ringing. "G&R Fabrication and Cranes, this's George…oh, okay. Hey, slow, slow down, Mister King please! Take a deep breath, count to ten…better? I'm gonna put you on speaker; Rig, Tommy and Griggs are here."

"Ohhhh…oh-ho-ho…George…that creepy little bastard'd better hide, and better'd hide good." Mr. King raved. Somethin' must've gone horrendously wrong to put the easy-going King of Coal in such an off-kilter mood. "Because if I find him, I'm gonna kill him, and I'm gonna kill him slow…"

"Who, and what'd they do?"

"That _deviant_ Craig Kauffman! Who else?! He broke in the other day and wrote a logic bomb into our network. It went off five minutes ago."

"How bad's the damage?"

"Total. All my employee info is gone, payroll's gone, all our geological data's gone, customer info's gone, all accounts receivable and payable's gone, my entire company just got erased!" He paused, his voice rattling with scarcely suppressed rage and, I'd wager, a sense of helplessness as the company he'd built began to unravel before him. "I don't care what you have to do, but I'm counting on a visit from that Man in Black within the hour. I won't give that creepy fuck an inch, but if you want my guys to fight, they've gotta have a job to defend."

"Ohh…kay. Give us a second." George put Mr. King on hold. So, Medical Mechanica was targeting King Coal. I had put my bet on Welshman's, can't win 'em all. With 400 souls willing to fight (and King's location being right down the road!) we could not afford to abandon our friend to the Man in Black; and whatever he had planned for Mr. King. "Rig, what does Naota and Haruko have on Craig?"

"From what they've gathered, enough to prosecute."

"Okay, hold that thought." George put Mr. King back on. "Still there?"

"Yep."

"I'm going to come by with Josh and our new tech guy, Canti, and see if we can help. He's working on another project at the moment, but this'll take priority. Meanwhile, _do not_ do _anything_ against Craig. We will look into him." George assured Mr. King he'd be over within the hour and hung up. "Rig, here are the rules. No fuss, muss, mess, guns or bodies. Those are the R.O.E. Take care of it."

. . .

"This's everything we've got." Naota and Haruko upended the folders of photographs onto Rig's desk. They had been filled in on the misfortunes of King Coal and Craig's suspected involvement. If there was ever a time to put the brakes on Craig's shenanigans, it had come. "These are the originals, but I went and printed off copies just in case. Think this'll be enough?"

"Holy man you two..." Rig sifted through the pile of printouts, weeks worth of documenting Craig Kauffman's every move. "This's amazing work, I'd say you've done this before."

"Oh, the tales I could tell." Haruko insinuated. "So when do we take the little skeezer down? I'm ready to go, I'm turing blue over here."

"That enthusiasm, I knew we kept you around for a reason." Rig smiled, giving Naota a knowing twitch of his eyebrow. Whatever kept Haruko around. "I have an idea on how to confront him, but we'll need one more thing."

"What's that, and what's the idea?" Naota felt a smile beginning to form, this was it. The final confrontation, a face-to-face with Craig; like spies taking down their target at last.

"Probably sit Craig down somewhere public where he'll be less likely to make a scene." Haruko predicted. "Ask him the specifics of his involvement and what their plan is, and threaten him with exposure if he doesn't play along…sound about right?"

"Wow. Way to ruin all the suspense and mystery of it all. Just…kill all the fun." Rig seemed exasperated with Haruko's casualness, and shook his head. "But yeah, that, and we'll also need a copy of everything on his phone."

"Why…and how?" Naota wondered, then answered half his question. "Right, for any texts, voicemails or messages related to M-M."

"That, and extra blackmail material." Rig elaborated. "Know anywhere he leaves his phone unguarded?"

"I can think of one." Naota ran over Craig's average daily itinerary. "But how do we get the info off the phone?"

"With this." Rig produced a device that resembled an external hard drive at a passing glance. "Josh used some of his wizardry to magic this up. Plug it into any device and it'll make a complete copy of any data inside. It has a few different jacks for different phone models so hardware compatibility isn't an issue."

"Cooool…" Naota accepted the device and its cables. "Okay, I think Haruko and I can take care of this by lunch, if we can head out now?"

"Yes, yes! Go, go!" Rig turned them loose. "I'll find somewhere for the sit-down and get that set up. If you're able to get at his phone, we can do this tonight."

"We're on it. We'll call soon's it's done." He and Haruko took their usual seats in the white, unmarked toolbox truck and headed for the Philipsburg High School track. Since it was now the tail end of July, the track was open to the public to run on. Craig typically visited in the mornings to get a few laps in; locking his valuables in the security of his car. Right on schedule and in his usual parking spot, was that blue and white '06 Honda Civic. Since Craig was already out running, they would have to make this quick.

"Keep an eye out, would you?" He ordered Haruko, taking a Slim Jim from one of the truck's toolboxes. "This shouldn't take long, but all the same…"

"Less talk, more work, I got it." She sat on the truck's hood to watch the runners. Craig's view of his car was obscured by the truck, but anyone getting close to the fence would see what he was up to. He'd have to be efficient with his time.

Naota approached the passenger door as they have less inner workings than the driver door. And there it was, chilling in the cup holder, Craig's unguarded phone. Just before inserting the metal strip into the door, Naota froze as the gravity of what he was about to do sank in. While following Craig probably didn't break any laws, this was blatantly illegal. Breaking into Craig's car to then break into his phone, was definitely frowned upon in polite society. And now that he thought about it, Josh had conveniently made a device to copy a phone's data, and Rig and everyone else seemed okay with that? Something was off.

"Hey, you done yet?" Haruko interrupted his thoughts. "I think he's starting on his last lap."

"And he'll have a cool-down lap after that." He remembered. "I've got time." _Ker-klunk_. Fuck it, he decided to play along and see where things went. Besides, Rig and the G &R crew seemed genuine in wanting to fight M-M; and that had to count for something. He popped the door's lock and sat on the passenger seat. Once plugged into Craig's phone, its screen lit up with a progress bar and an 'Amount Copied' display. 10%...20%...30%...

"Cool-down lap!" Haruko announced. "Two minutes, to be safe. Are you going through his spank bank, let's gooooo…"

"Seventy percent, eighty…" He watched the progress bar crawl across the screen; praying that it would finish without error. "Ninety…"

"Time's up!"

"Done!" The screen now read 'Copy complete'. He unplugged, repositioned the phone the best he could, relocked the door, closed it and tried to avoid sprinting back to the truck. With the tingling adrenal surge he was forgetting how to walk like a normal human being.

"Whoa, jitters much?" Haruko teased as he managed to start the truck, but not without rattling the keys in a tell-tale tremor.

"The list of things I never thought I'd do, but have, keeps getting longer." He said, glancing up to the mirror to watch Craig walk to his car. All seemed well and normal to Craig, so Naota breathed a sigh of temporary relief. The easy part was over.

. . .

"Okay, we've got the copy of his phone, now what?" Naota asked as the computer in G&R's office sifted through the phone's data.

"Print off copies of his photos and texts, scan messages for anything M-M related, and pull a phone number to use in contacting him." Rig said, plugging another, older flip-style phone into the computer. While they waited for the computer to finish, Rig sorted their collection of photos, categorizing them by the girls in them. "She's the most pop'lar, isn't she?" He tapped the largest stack, containing the girl from the Chester Hill trailer park. "She's got the lion's share of photos."

"Uh-huh. I think she's his favorite."

"We'll use her then; he'll believe a call from Natalie." Rig turned to his computer. "Natalie Ritter, really sweet girl. Kinda ditzy, but sweet. You'll get to meet her come fall Nao' when school starts; she's in our class."

"Oh, great." He cringed at the thought of coming face to face with someone he'd secretly photographed and spied on, even inadvertently. He'd probably die from embarrassment. "I can't wait."

"Alright, here's how this's gonna work." Rig laid out his plan. "I have this burner phone set up with Natalie's number, which we got from Craig's phone, so it'll look like her to Craig. I'll get a meet 'n' greet setup, we'll go, Craig an' I'll have a talk, annnddd…yeah. Sound good?"

"Why are you doing the talking? Shouldn't the three of us confront him?"

"If he's really working for M-M, we don't want to put you right in front of him, number one. Second, he doesn't know what you look like, far's I know. So I think it'd be best to keep it that way. Mizz Haruko, I don't know if you've got the right temperament for this kinda thing…"

"What? I'm a total people person." She was indignant in her disbelief. "Charming as a Cheshire Cat."

"And besides..." Rig ignored her. "He and his family hate me already, so there's nothing else he can really do to me, is there?" Rig explained and Naota had to concede he made a good point. But there was another outstanding question.

"What about after, assuming all goes well?"

"Put him on the first train out of town? This's ultimately your battle Nao'." Rig suggested. "I'm just here to guide you along and help the best I can; make sure you don't accidentally wander into a minefield. Everything's on how far you're willing to go. But, I guess it'll depend on what Craig has to say, won't it?"

"I suppose it would." Naota agreed, and pondered a moment at what Rig had just said. How far he was willing to go? What did that mean? Such an interesting choice of words. What was he willing to do, if Craig did turn out to be in league with Medical Mechanica? The entire situation was so fluid, so unprecedented, it was impossible to say. Just like earlier at the track, he decided to play along and see where things took him. "The first train out of town sounds reasonable, and fun. Wait, can you actually imitate Natalie's voice?" He knew Rig had an extensive vocal range, but this could prove to be a stretch for him.

"Oh you!" Rig giggled in a hauntingly high-pitched voice that didn't belong to him. "Of course I can silly! Tee-hee-hee-hee! I'm the one and only Natalie Ritter; rawr!"

"Do not, _ever_ , do that again without warning me." Haruko said, looking at Rig like he'd just turned his head in a complete circle. It was only then Naota remembered Haruko had never heard Rig imitate a voice before. "That's just creepy."

"Oh, it's creepy is it?" Rig shifted gears, dropping down from the high and squeaky Natalie to Haruko's lower tone. She didn't appreciate it while Naota found it hilarious.

"Quit it."

"Quit it." Rig echoed while Naota tried not to laugh.

"I'm warning you."

"Oh, whatcha gonna do?" The Rig-Haruko hybrid challenged.

"I'm gonna do you the same's that Scorpion bot, rebar and all; but I'll take my time and make it look like an accident." She answered with a feral snarl.

"….Yes ma'am…" Rig turned back into himself. "Heh-heh-hem…hem. All right, I'm set. I'll put him on speaker so's y'all can hear; butcha gotta be quiet." Hushed they gathered around Rig's desk, breathing only the softest of air. Surely there was some sort of law they were breaking, but this was so unusually exciting that he really didn't care. Rig cleared his throat once more, dialed and laid the phone on his desk. Three rings and…

"Yo-yo, this's the Craig-meister. Whad-up?!"

. . .

"Where are you, you big, dumb stupid meanie?!" A shrill, girly voice screeched in Craig's ear. He reacted by dropping his phone, accidentally stepping on the gas and swerved across two lanes of traffic before regaining his bearings; nearly meeting a coal truck bumper to bumper. "Hello?! Are you there; answer me!"

"Whoa, heeeyyyyy…" He glanced quickly at the screen to remind himself which girlfriend this one was. "…Natalie. What's up?" He wasn't sure just what he'd done, and it was best to play dumb until he was better informed of the charges.

"You know darn well, you, you…cheater!" Natalie fumbled for words, sniffling and hiccuping in her distress.

"WHAT. Did you just say?" Craig whipped over to the berm and put his car in park. He was now hanging on Natalie's every word.

"You, you're, *hic*, cheating on me, you stupid, stupid jerk!" Natalie wailed. "Whyyyy, don't you love me?!"

"No, no, I, well, I do, it's…who, who told you; was it someone from school?"

"N-no, there was this one time, when you were over, and left your phone out, *hic*, and I wanted to play Candy Crush, but my phone was dead, _sniffff…_ so I borrowed yours, but yours is diff' from mine, and, and it got a text from some Amber person, and I didn't want to think anything of it, but, but then I looked at some of your pictures…" Natalie rattled off in single, hurried breath, words stumbling over each other in their rush to get out of her mouth. She paused to get a breath and he thought he'd get a word in edgewise. But Natalie had a lungful of air and took off once again. "And, and there were all these nudes on it, of all these girls around townnn…"

"Baby, you gotta believe me; they're just some prank stuff my bros sent me." He lied, cursing himself for leaving his phone unguarded. Or, did he? He would have sworn up and down that he had never left it out of his sight unless it was secured somehow. 'Must've been drinking that night, that'd make sense.' Craig's main worry though was Natalie's story, however much of it was true didn't matter, somehow getting out. Unfortunately she had more to say still.

"I thought so too, I really didn't want to believe it…but, _snnniifff!_ I was out, and saw you with Julia Roth."

"I've never even heard of her. Are you sure it…h-hello?" Craig looked down, Natalie had hung up. "What the…what the fuck?!" She'd texted him a picture. It was undoubtedly him and Julia, or their perfect clones, and that was most certainly his car. Well, this evening was going to hell… _P-ping!_ Another text.

'And with Kelsey Bowman.' Uh-oh. _P-Ping!_ 'Lisa Diefenbach.' No…no way. _P-Ping!_ 'Rebecca Stevenson' This was NOT happening! He hit 'Call' next to the top of the text before she could send another.

"Okay, okay. Look, this's allll a huge misunderstanding."

"It, it, _snniffff!_ Is?" Man, it was a good thing she was so gullible. Cute, but _dumb._

"Of course it is. Look, let's meet up and I'll explain everything." He'd have to come up with something good, but when telling lies, he knew to make the lie big and keep repeating it until they believed it.

"O-okay. But, not at my place. I don't want my parents to find out."

"I totally, _totally_ agree."

"Is the Y.M.C.A.'s café alright?"

"That'll be perfect." Nice, a packed public place where she'd be less likely to make a scene. This could work out after all. "In say, an hour?"

"Promise? You promise to be there?"

"You can bet on it baby."

"Oh-kay. I'll get the back corner booth, so no one'll bother us. See you there…love you."

"Yeah, love you too babe." Craig ended the call, dropped his phone into his car's cupholder and took a drag from his vaporizer. "Man, what an airhead. It's a good thing she's cute."

. . .

"Goddamn that was disgusting." Rig had transformed back to his usual self. "I feel…just…yyeeeaaaauuucchhkkk!"

"You and me both." Naota had resisted the urge to barf the entire call. "I feel like I need a shower just by listening to that."

"Yeah, this's great and all, can we get going now?" Haruko was practically dancing by the door, eager to be off. "C'mon, let's go!"

"What's your hurry?" Rig gathered up the burner phone and put all the pictures back into the envelope.

"Hey, I don't wanna miss this! Either you completely destroy this putz, or it goes totally sideways! I don't lose, it's like I'm the Roman Emperor at the gladiator games. Either way, whoever lives or dies, I get a great show."

"Gee-whiz, Mizz Haruko, thanks." Rig rolled his eyes. "Nao' you'd help me out if I got into trouble, right?"

"Of course."

"'Least I can count on one of y'all. Go on and get in the Bronco, I'll be right out."

. . .

After Haruko and Naota left the office, I gave George and Tommy a call to fill them in. Once I explained the situation I'd arranged, I asked for George's final go-ahead.

"There's a few stipulations."

"I know. There'll be no muss, fuss, mess, or bodies…"

"No, well, yes. That's not what I meant." He laid down the last rules. "Be professional. The Kauffman's may not be on the Christmas card list, but be professional. This is strictly business. Second, if it does get violent or ugly in any form, do not make a scene. Leave immediately and call Johnny. He, Josh and Mike will take things from there."

"Anything else?"

"Craig has to leave town; permanently. And, preferably under his own choice and power if it can be managed. That's the most leniency I can allow. He may be a rampaging douche-parade, but he's also still a Human."

"Oh, the view from that Moral high ground is a right pretty one…"

"Don't get snarky."

"Why's that?"

"You sound too much like your father when you do."

"Oh." There are times when you wish you'd kept your witty little soundbits to yourself. I had been doing well the past two months, really well, in not thinking about my Dad.

"Ah shit Rig, I'm sorry. That was uncalled for."

"No, no. It's fine. You're right, I was being that stereotypical angst filled teen."

"That may be. At least your angst filled teen self doesn't sparkle."

"A-freakin'-men to that."

"So are you ready, are you confident you can do this?"

"Do you think I can?"

"That's not what I asked." Okay, fair enough.

"…Yes. Yes, I will do this."

"Then your operation is A-Go. Keep us in the loop. Dismissed."

"Roger that. I will report in one hour." I hung up, slipping my phone into my pocket and drew my revolver. To open a Ruger GP100's cylinder, you press a large button on the left hand side of the frame while holding it with your right, and use your left hand to push the cylinder out to the left. The cylinder holds six, count 'em, zero point three fifty seven caliber shells. Each cartridge was hand loaded by yours truly, consisting of: a Remington brass casing, a CCI pistol primer, 9.8 grains of Herco smokeless pistol powder, and a 125 grain Hornady XTP jacketed hollow point bullet that would scream along at 1,600 feet per second should I ever be unlucky enough to ever have to fire it. God, Allah, Buddha, Shiva, Spaghetti Monster…and Dad; if any of you ever bother listening to me, just this once would be nice. Please, please don't let me mess this up. That's all I'm asking, I'm not too worried about the rest.

With all six shells in their place, twelve more of them hidden along my belt, and my gun in good order, I closed the cylinder, set it in place, and secure in its holster at my four o'clock. And hopefully that's where it would stay. Alright. Quick deep breath. Make sure you've got everything. Wallet, watch, keys, pocketknife, hat, folder with pictures, burner phone, gun, ammo, sunglasses, spare change…yep, yep. Okay, let's do this.

"Hey you lay-abouts! Git yer butts in the truck!" I barked, seeing Naota and Haruko merely leaning against my Bronco. "Ain't got no time to waste; I've got a date!"

. . .

* * *

*No songs or translations. I'm disappointed too. :/

So maybe it wasn't as action packed as a parking lot smack-down with a Scorpion bot, or didn't show any intrigue and political maneuvering of Medical Mechanica's inner circle. But I think it was important none-the-less. There'll also be a few small things here and there that'll pop up again down the road; see if you can keep track!

I also love making lists, thinking of supplies, outfitting homegrown militias, and talking about firearms in general. Can you tell?

Cutting things off where I did felt like a good place to stop, especially when I saw the word count was approaching 13,000. So we'll have to wait a little longer for the Come to Jesus moment with Craig Kauffman, ohhhh...the suspense! Who else feels it? Or is it just me? That'll be all out of me for now, time to actually get outside for a bit. I hear tell there's this bright and warm yellow ball in the sky; they call it a 'Sun'. Until next time, thank you so much for reading and being unbelievably patient; please let me know how I'm doing! Thanks again!


	9. Chapter 9

Yoooooo-hoooo...how are yoooouu? Haha, oh, it's good to be back. It has been a busy two months. I reached a year graduated from college, a year at my first adult-type job, moved to my first, very own apartment. I was also able to go back to Pennsylvania, sadly for a funeral. But while I was there, I was able to refresh my memory on the landscape of this fic and update my memory on places I hadn't seen in years. Hopefully this will pay dividend later on as events begin moving around, and outside of, Philipsburg and Osceola Mills. Coal Country is riddled with places that time has simply passed over, tree-tunnel dirt roads, two hundred year old mining towns, sections of unknown forest. If you're willing, I'll try my best to bring this world of my heritage to your computer. In the meantime, let's check in on Rig, Naota and Haruko, and their meeting with Craig...I hope you're excited as I am!

* * *

. . .

'Hmmm…no, no…that can't be right…' The Man in Black mused, observing his pocket watch's many faces. 'Too soon, this is much too soon.' He focused on one of the smaller faces, watching its two hands spin faster and faster, picking up speed as they turned. He didn't understand. Events were proceeding smoothly. The Iron was on schedule, local dissent was non-existent, but with the usual growing rumors, Haruko's arrival on Earth had proven thus-far inconsequential, Naota was in the area and already a hunt for him was being organized. Craig Kauffman had performed exceptionally well in sowing chaos and setting the stage for what was to come; which made what The Man in Black's watch was telling him all the more upsetting.

"Well, I suppose I'd best see what can be done about it; if anything at all." He sighed as the largest face's hand swiveled to a new heading. The Man hefted his attache case, paid for his bourbon and exited RJ's pub. "After all, he has done well…but then again, in the end is _just_ a human…"

. . .

"This's one swingin' place Nao'." Haruko was gazing around the YMCA's café, her head on a wide-eyed swivel to take in every twinkling neon light, each photograph of locals and places around Philipsburg, and all the coming and going foot traffic; a raucous, laughing horde of teens with nothing to do and all night to get it done. "You guys come here often?"

"Buncha times with Rig." Naota said while watching the front and back doors, expecting Craig to burst in any moment. "We come up to shoot pool a lot, play some table tennis, use the workout area, that kind of thing. Rig's never seen a body of water bigger than the pool here, and since I lived next to the ocean in Japan…I got to teach him how to swim."

"And I trust good times were had by all." Haruko had a small laugh thinking about Rig learning the art of not drowning. "All the rest sounds pretty fun."

"There are Magic, Yu-Gi-Oh, Pokemon, and Dungeons & Dragons leagues that meet here too, if you want to unleash your inner nerd."

"Okay, _that_ sounds boring."

"I dunno, with that competitive nature of yours, I think those games would be perfect for you. And, Dungeon Master Haruko…it just…sounds right."

"I've got plenty of better things to do with my time than play card games."

"Oh yes. Napping, screwing off at work, messing with your Vespa, eating my Dad, Gramps and I out of house and home, that all would take precedent. Did I miss anything?"

"Uhmmm…yeah! Being adventurous, delightfully spontaneous, out-of-this-world awesome?" She explained with her best 'Uh…duh' "How'd you forget that? Oh that's right. You were too busy being laaaammme…"

"So what I do isn't all, or any, of those things?"

"Nope. Okay, lemme use slow words. Here's my Naota impression, to put it in perspective." She let her eyes fade out of focus, as if gazing on a distant horizon, drew herself up and put one hand on her hip, then threw back her shoulders and out her chest, and put her other hand in the shape of an 'L' on her forehead. "Hurrr-durr, my name's Naota! I'm always trying to be super-mature and act like nothing bothers me, durrrr-durrr-durr, I take life too seriously and never let anyone have any fun, deerrrrrr-heerrrrrr, and I always walk around like I've got a stick up my ass, herrr-derrr-durrr…" She concluded, sticking out her tongue and blowing a raspberry for good measure. "So… _there._ "

"Yeah?! Well…my…my name's Haruko! And, I'm a sociopathic, genocidal airhead that can't tell her ass from her elbow! My hobbies include pathological lying, treating life as a running gag reel, and having the mental stability of an Etch-A-Sketch!" He retorted, feeling a rush of color to his ears as they mashed each other's Jackass Buttons.

"Better than having the emotional dynamic of a dead jellyfish!"

"You keep talkin' smack and _you're_ gonna be a dead jellyfish!"

"Ohhh…I'd love to see you try."

"Bet you would, you'd probably pay good money to see that…oh wait…"

"You callin' me poor?"

"Please, I'm not calling you poor. It insults poor people."

"Pretty manly words for someone who's a…"

"The pair of you is _just_ _ **too**_ _cute_." Rig caught them. He had a burger basket overflowing with fries in one hand, the yellow envelope tucked under his arm, a tape recorder poking from his pocket, and a Type II diabetes sized pop in the other hand. "Do you two do this 'Lover's Spat' thing often? 'Cause it is _just adorable_."

"I hope you choke on that burger." Naota fumed, embarrassed for having been caught arguing down at Haruko's level.

"And drown in your pop, for good measure." Haruko nodded in a 'would serve you right.' At least they agreed on something.

"Where's Craig anyway?"

"On his way, I'm sure." Rig assured, then took a deep draw on his pop. "So here's what'll happen. I'll be in the booth right behind you, should be able to hear us talk. I'm gonna 'xplain what's up, ask some questions, get some inevitable resistance, introduce some leverage, get some answers, and then we frog-march Sir Craig the Lewd to the train station…we kosher?"

"And what if he leaves, or starts something?" Naota asked, worrying for Rig's, and his own, safety. Craig had torched people's homes, blown up trucks, and derailed a train. An entire goddamn train. A fist fight, no matter how public the venue, was far from out of the question.

"We let him leave. And if he's violent…resist valiantly, then run like hell." Rig answered. "And no, Mizz Haruko, yah can't beat him up."

"And here I was thinking you weren't half-bad." Haruko griped as Rig took a physical beat-down off the table.

"W'all, I can't really stop you." He conceded. "I would _prefer_ you didn't do anything…"

"At the very least, don't kill him." Naota added.

"Spoil-sports, both of yah." She pouted. "How's about…maim?" She asked after a pause.

"Hospital; nothin' mortal." Rig allowed. He settled into his booth, then peeked over the backrest between them. "Also, just as a reminder…oh damn, here he comes. Luck be with us all!" Rig sat down while Natoa and Haruko buried their noses into menus; while watching Craig walk by out of the corner of their eye. He sauntered by dressed in his finest usual attire, standard issue half-grin on his face, and a ten dollar bouquet from the _Comet_ grocery store in his hand. This was gonna be good. Naota put his ears on their 'High' setting, and listened in.

. . .

"Hey, I need this booth. Get lost." Craig had made it. "Wait…the fuck're you doing here, Carson?" Annnnd, he's also read my hat. Showtime.

"Havin' a burger an' fries, hangin' out. Oh, nice flowers. Who's the lucky lad? Are those pansies? How'd you know they're my favorite?"

"Screw off. I'm s'posed to meet someone, and you're in our spot." He looked 'round and 'round, searchin' for Natalie. "She should be here…"

"W'all…why don't…" I took a bite of my burger, licking off the dribbled over ketchup from my fingers. I put enough of the stuff on my burgers so it looks like a murder took place. Anyway… "You take a load off here, I'll finish up eatin' while you wait…an' in the meantime, have us a friendly chat?"

"Heh, heh-heh-heh…yeah…uh, I don't think so. Now, I'm going to ask you nice one last time. Fuck off on outta here like a good little dipshit Carson…"

"Craig, I insist…we talk." I interrupted, picking up the envelope from the bench. It had been sitting there next to me, and next to it was the running tape recorder; getting every word.

"What's that?" Seeing I wasn't immediately browbeaten, and the appearance of a large envelope, he sensed something was off. "What's going on here?"

"Sit down and find out."

"Listen you!..." Craig's voice an' temper flared, then he remembered where he was. "Okay fine, you creepy little shit. But as soon's my girl gets here, you're gone. Got it?"

"Of course, of course. This shouldn't take long." Craig got settled on his bench, still glancing over his shoulder. From my seat, I had a view of the entire café, including the front door and counter. It was a great vantage point, except for the strange feeling I got when I looked at the front windows that opened to the terrace seating. It was a mental fog, like some mist was trying to cloud over my thoughts and muddle my brain. I shook my head to clear it, blinked a few times and got on with it.

"Alright, make it fast Carson."

"So…what've you an' yours been up to lately? How's the state of things over at Kauffman Central?"

"Fine…I guess?"

"Cole still workin' for the State Troopers?"

"Yeah, he is…" He continued to look more 'n' more befuddled as we talked, wonderin' where'n the hell I was takin' him on this train of thought.

"He's gotta be pullin' a ton of overtime these days."

"Makes you say that?"

"All the tanker trucks blowin' up, for starters. That coal yard fire, the houses getting burned down that all belonged to supervisors from Dahl LP Inc. Then there's that train that derailed…"

"Oh yeah? Guess all that'd keep him busy. I don't know anything about any of it. Besides, Cole's not allowed to talk about his assignments."

"That's gotta be a drag. Having a brother on the up-n-up an' he can't even tell his own family what he does all day." Yes, yes, I know what you're dyin' to ask. 'Oh Rig…are yah gonna go anywhere with this…or is your plan to small-talk him into suicide via stabbing himself with a soup spoon?' Patience, my young Padiwan. We're gittin' there, don' you worry none.

"Guess so…" He said, still lookin' for Natalie and now started checking his phone. "Where is she? She's late…" He muttered, getting more uneasy by the second.

"Then again, you're a smart guy; I'm sure you've put it all together."

"I have?" He was surprised to find himself a regular Sherlock Holmes.

"W'all yeah! If I've got it figured, then someone with your social graces, an ear to the rails, and charm of course, must've heard the whole story by now."

"Really? Since you think you're so damn smart, what's _your_ theory?" He challenged. Here goes…

"W'all…none of the incidents were at the same time, so it would have to be one guy. He'd have to be someone of reasonable intelligence to figger out the truck's times and routes; same as the train. He'd have to have a thing for pyrotechnics and mathematics to engineer his method of taking out the trucks; and bringing down that bridge too. He's surely a local because an outsider would stand out an' be noticed; in a town this small. He'd lastly have a motive, of course; an' I suspect it's highly personal. After all, who else'd burn down that Dahl's supervisor's houses; and the same to Mister Dahl himself? Last I heard, the poor man's still in the hospital."

"Look, this's fascinating and all…" He pulled out his phone again to check the time. "But I've got better, any really, things to do. So why don't you…"

"Don't you wanna know who it is though, who's been setting the county on fire?"

"Uhhhhggg…" He sighed, obviously annoyed with me breathing his air. "Fine, fuckin' who?"

"Ain't it obvious? It's you, Craig." He'd been looking over his shoulder, and for a good ten seconds, froze statue-solid as he processed what I'd said. I think we've struck a nerve folks! All day, I'd been mentally rehearsing this conversation, running over as many different iterations as possible. 'What if he says this? What if he says that? How do I phrase this, ask this question?' Again and again, verbally sparring with my best read on Craig's personality; trying to account for any variable. Now that the trivialities were out of the way, the hard part began: actually prying information outta him.

"Care to repeat that?" He asked, more as a dare than anything else as his lips pulled back into a gritted-teeth baring of fangs.

"It's you. It can't be anyone else; who's been setting all the fires. Oh, and I almost forgot. The logic bomb in King Coal's network? That's what gave it away, you're one of a very small group of people in town who could've written that."

"The joke's over now, got it?" He was havin' none of my business, but I wasn't going anywhere. "Now, my girl's supposed to be here any second…"

"Natalie's not coming."

"…How…do you know that?" Something in Craig's brain must've tripped, a warning indicator had gone off and it worried him. "I never said who I was meeting."

"It doesn't matter how I know. Tell me about the fires, what do you know?"

"I've had enough, I'm outta here." He started to slide down his seat. I knew my rules didn't allow forcibly restraining him, but was wasn't going to let him go without a fight.

"Natalie doesn't even know you're here." I opened up the envelope, stopping him mid-scootch on his seat. "And neither does…Julia, Rebecca, Lisa, Kelsey, Maria, Jennifer, Ashley, Sammantha, Katy, Sarah, Noelle, Jessica, Mandy, Debbie, Morgan, Sasha…" I started pulling pictures out one after the other, laying them in neat rows for Craig to take in. All were of him and a girl, either at his car, her house, or somewhere around town. His eyes went from narrowed in anger to ever widening shock as the pile of pictures grew. "Abigail, Christina, Elizabeth…"

"Okay, okay, okay…" He cracked, trying to cover the mat of pictures. "Think you're real funny huh? W-what? Got good with photoshop or something?"

"I had a feelin' you'd say that…so I came prepared." I put down the envelope next to me, then took out my pocket notebook, and lastly brought up and flipped open the burner phone I'd set up earlier.

"What's that, a notebook?"

"Sixteen-thirty hours, July twentieth, a Wednesday. Three hundred Hill Street, Sunny Slope Park, Chester Hill. You met with Natalie Ritter for five and a quarter hours. She wore a pink tank-top, grey running shorts…"

"Heh?"

"Twenty-two hundred hours, July twenty-third, Saturday. Two-seventy Railroad Street. You met Laura Grey; climbed in through her bedroom window. Such a romantic you are. Left at oh-five hundred hours."

"H-how…how do you…?!"

"Twelve hundred forty-five hours, July twenty fifth, Monday. Number Nine, North Centre Street. You met Kali Frescona. Stayed for three hours, leaving at fifteen forty-five hours on the dot. She wore that blue sundress you're so fond of…"

"What the _FUCK_ …!" He slammed the table, attracting a café full of stares. Remembering himself, he took a few forced breaths. "What the fuck is this? Huh? You been creepin' on me? What's the matter, jealous or something? Pissed I get ten times the pussy as you or what?"

"Well, any number times zero is still zero, but I digress. _I_ have not been following you. But, _very_ talented friends of mine have. They find you exceedingly interesting. Now, I'm gonna ask you again. What do you know about the fires?"

"Hey, I'm flattered they think I'm so interesting." He certainly didn' _sound_ flattered. "And I don't know shit about the fires. But what I do know, is that if you don't get outta my sight in the next ten seconds, I'm gonna beat the hell outta you; and I don't care who sees me do it. Then, I'm calling Carl and he'll play with you for a bit."

"Yeah…I wouldn't do that if I were you…"

"Really?"

"See this phone? It's preloaded with a group message to all the contacts in _your_ phone. It has copies of all these pictures on the table, and then some." I turned the phone so he could see the 'Group Message ready to Send!' alert, along with the 'Fifty-three contacts included' clarifier at the bottom. "You so much's look at me funny, I hit send, and everyone and their brother in town will know how, and with who, Craig Kauffman spends his free time. So, if I were you, I'd simmer the fuck down."

"You wouldn't." He sounded more like he was tryin' to convince himself than me. It seemed like he was starting to come around, just a little more pressure if I could manage it. You see…I was sweating bullets on that vinyl seat, my shirt'd stuck to the backrest. Things were actually going so relatively well I was sure it was gonna blow up in my face any second. I'm not a hardass by nature, but I was pretending to be to keep Craig cowed. With two inches in height, prob'bly twenty pounds and four years in age on me, I knew he could put a serious hurtin' on me if given half a chance. I didn't want to even begin imagining what Carl Kauffman would do. Also, I didn't know if he had a knife, pepper-spray or mace, one of those stealth-pens, or hell, even a gun on him. Working for M-M, any of those were in the realm of possibilities.

"Don't tempt me..."

"Wait. Wait a minute. You can't do this, Cole's a cop!" He crowed, proud of himself for that little check, and, mate.

"I don't give a flyin' fuck if Cole's a cop, the Governor, the President, or even the mother-lovin' Pope! 'Cause, none of 'em can stop all the fathers, uncles, brothers and cousins of these girls from showin' up at your house to throw you a boot party; once they find out you've been bangin' their Little Princess. And that's if they're in a GOOD mood. Now, that doesn't have to happen…if you tell me about the fires."

"Grrrr…motherfucker…fucker-fucker-fucker…" He growled and gnashed, twistin' an' writhin' in useless fury. It was plain's day he wanted to slug me, but he wasn't anywhere near that dumb. He was agonizing over his options, runnin' shaking fingers through his hair; the flowers forgotten on the table. Craig was searching for a solution, and prob'bly wondering about The Man in Black…I was not about to feel any kind of sorry for him though. Banish that thought.

"C'mon Craig, we're both busy guys. I ain't got all day for you to sit here and chew your nails."

"You…" He stopped, conducting a quick sweep of the café's customers. He came back to me, speaking in a subdued tone. "You don't understand. Even if I _did_ know anything, I can't tell you."

"And why's that?" I waggled the phone to remind him. "C'mon Craig…"

"I'm dead either way." He muttered, barely audible over the café's hubbub. I think he meant it to be only for himself and it slipped out. "Ohhhh….fuck-fuck-fuck…okay."

"Whatcha got man?"

"Don't!...Fuckin' rush me. Alright, here's what's up." I checked the recorder and it was all kinds of kosher. Down the Rabbit Hole we go.

"'Bout, two months, two months and a half ago, this _guy_ approached Cole. Some F.B.I. or C.I.A. lookin' spook. He said he works for this company called Mecha Mining, something or other. Cole didn't give me word-by-word, but basically, some changes are coming to this area. BIG, changes, and this guy wanted us to be part of his team."

"Kinda changes?"

"What'd he say? A…new paradigm, a new _world_ he said. And we, bein' my bros and me, are to be part of the group callin' the shots. When the dust settles, central Pennsylvania's going to be renamed Kauffman Country."

"So what's that got to do with setting things on fire?"

"Eliminating competition? Setting the stage for something bigger? Fuck if I know, and fuck if I care. The Man gave me to-do's, and I did 'em. I did my job to the letter, and had a blast doing it. It was _almost_ as fun as screwing. But, more importantly, I've already got my promissory note. Written in blood and all."

"Promissory…promise. Promise of what?"

"A promise that when The Man's goals are met, his people take over the show, and I have a seat at the table, and a never ending all-I-can-fuck buffet of any bitch I want. The Kama Sutra's gonna look like the Bible by the time I eat my fill."

"So…this, Man, put you up to everything? Is it just the promises he's made, or does he pay you?"

"Yep. He's the Long-Legged Mack Daddy. Gives me my orders and pays me too. Mad stacks Carson, all in cash; tax and duty free. All I have to do is jump when he says."

"How does he get in touch with you?"

"The Man's weird like that, well, weird in a lot of ways. But he just…finds you. If he wants something, he just shows up. Never calls, texts, emails, no electronics. He'll tell you he wants to meet somewhere, and when. When you meet up, he'll either give you a list you're supposed to burn or will just tell you. Again, no records." He looked 'round once more, like he expected The Man in Black to be right at his shoulder. Once Craig'd gotten wound up, he really started talking. He either felt comfortable enough to do so, or just liked the sound of his own voice. You decide.

"That is weird. What's he got your brothers doing?"

"Don't ask, don't tell. Plausible deniability for one, compartmentalization and all that shit too. But, I can tell you this much…"

"What?" He'd gotten over his shock of earlier. Now the suave and braggart Craig was back.

"Consider it a, uh, friendly warning. I may be the guy that's got his fingers up this county's hootch, what with how much of a whacked-out tizzy everyone's gotten into over a few fires…but I'm a low-level boss. The shit-storm we've got planned for you, stacks _a lot_ higher than me."

"How high we talkin'…exactly?"

"High enough that I've said too much as is. High enough that, people like _you_ and your ilk are dead men walking. Oh yeah. That's right." Uh-oh. I didn't like the way this sounded. Craig had that half-grin, half-leer back on, leaning across the table to be sure I was graced with his every word. "You, your family, your little mining and gas friends; scratching in the dirt. We've got the power of Johnny Law, the Gavel, the Purse, and even the Centre and Clearfield County Seals of Approval as two little ribbons on top. You may think you've got me over a barrel now, and good on you for that, really. But even if I go away, your world is still gonna burn…whether I get to light that fire myself, or not."

Well…shit Craig. Way to go. In scarin' the Bejeezus outta me, you've also let go that your family is just the tip of the iceberg…actually, the implications of that're even scarier. But now we are reassured one hundred percent a Man in Black is calling the shots, all of the Kauffman brothers are involved, and also the Powers-That-Be. At the very least City Councils, the County Commission and mayors are in cahoots as well. And so, our Official Overwatch Shit-List grows ever so longer.

"I…see. Now, that wasn't so hard, was it?" Pretend you're cool, pretend you're cool, you're not secretly feeling sick, pretend you're cool…

"Oh go sit on a cactus and spin." He sneered. "Now what? I answered all your questions."

"Yes, I suppose you have."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever. So how's about you give me those pictures since I cooperated, and we go back to hating each other, out of each other's sight, forever?" He'd put on a good show sure enough, but that envelope and phone had been right at the forefront of his mind the whole time. The phone had stayed in his vision and he'd been watching it like it might jump out of my hand and scurry out the door.

"I'd love to give you all of them, since there's a lot more where they came from. But, you're in such a rush, I don't think there's time." I insinuated, my thumb sliding over a button marked with a green phone.

"C-c'mon, quit fuckin' around and let me be already. And those pictures…"

"But I thought you said you had to get going?"

"Get…go…where?"

"Get the hell outta Dodge of course!" I grinned, mashing down on the 'Send' button.

"…You…did _not_ …just do that…" Craig blinked twice, his eyes growing wider in horror as the implications of what I'd just done sank in. "Oh fuck me, why?" **_Bzzzzztttt!_** His phone buzzed. Better answer that Craig-man, sounds like it's for you. "Hello?"

" ** _CRAIG!...KAUFFMAN!_** " A shrill shriek erupted from his phone. I'd say…Julia Roth, judging by the volume. " _What_ , kind of joke is…" Craig hung up on her before she got into full screams. **_Bzzzzzztttt!...Bzzzzttttt!_**

"I think that's yours. You gonna answer that?"

"H-hello?"

"Yeah, this Kauffman?!" If a curmudgeonly Russian's voice and a grizzly bear's growl had somehow produced a love child, but their relationship had a lot of underlying hate, and resentment in it...that voice had called Craig's phone.

"…Depends on who's asking?"

"This's Bruce Ritter. You've got some **_explain'_** to do, you fuck-happy rabbit; and if you can come up with _at least_ ten good reasons why, I'll make sure your death is quick. No guarantees on painless though…"

"You've killed me." He faintly said as he hung up on Mr. Ritter too. "Now what, goddamn jack-off! Happy?!"

"Looks like you've gotta leave Craig. Take a vacation, a lonnnng one. And, I wouldn't try leaving by car. With yours being as, signature, as it is, it'll have a big target painted on it now."

"You… _Carsons_ , think you're so goddamn special, don't you?! Like you're some kind of Holier-than-Thou 'cause your shit don't stink elites, aren't you?!" Craig suddenly wasn't scared anymore. He'd found some fire deep down, and it was spitting from his eyes; sparks flew off his tongue. "Didn't get enough running our good name, my Grandad's life, driving my Dad to cirrhosis…now you're going for a clean sweep? Okay, fine. But ask _your_ Grandad how that works out…oh wait…"

"Listen here, yah scroungy little fuck. In 'bout five minutes, ah lynch mob is gonna be combin' the town for yer scalp. An' if yah keep sittin' here bitchin' an' moanin' at me 'bout yer thievin' cheat of ah Grandad, an' good-fer-nuthin' dead-beat drunk of ah father, in some deluded notion yer gonna make me feel bad 'bout it all, yer gonna be a dead man. Now Ah'm willin' to let this little temper tantrum of yers go, 'cause Ah'm better than that." I'm really not some days, but I'd been ordered to keep this professional. Even if Craig did not. "An', Ah'll even help yah slink yer skeezy ass up to the train station in Clearfield if it means you'll be gone all that much faster."

"Well okay then!" Craig backed down as I boiled over. "Jesus-Fuck-H-Christ! Don't have your goddam period, we're in public. And hey, if you want to waste the gas, fine by me." **_Bzzzztttt!...Bzzzzttt!...Bzzzzttttt!_** His phone had been ringing non-stop, and everything went straight to voicemail. We needed to go if Craig really didn't want to get lynched. It really was going to be five, well three now, minutes before a roving band got organized and started looking for him. "I won't say no to a free ride. Lead the way, Jeeves."

"We'll take the alley door; I'm parked out back." I packed up everything, stood and we headed through the kitchen. We ignored the chef's yells as we went and reached the heavy steel door that opened to the dumpsters and an L-shaped blind alley. It emptied out into the back parking lot, surrounded by other dumpsters and back doors; hidden from street view. "Ladies first." I held the door open, and with a dismissive snort, he started out the door and down the stairs.

. . .

'So little Jeffy Carson fancies himself a detective?' Craig fumed, following Jeff through the YMCA's kitchen. 'He's got some real nerve, I'll say that much. But where'd he get all those pictures, how did I never see him following me?! Damn him! Fuck him, fuck his family, fuck his friends, his dogs, his truck, his stupid notebook, fuck it all!' He raved, stopping at the exit door.

"Ladies first." And that shit-eating grin too…it burned Craig in the worst kind of way. But nowhere near as much as the entire town being made wise to his escapades. Jeff was right, Cole's status as a State Trooper accounted precisely for _fuck-all_ when it came to social outrage and ostracism.

'At least I didn't give him too much info…I did brag a bit though…' He hadn't spilled his guts, and it was true he didn't know what his brothers were up to; but was aware of what their actions were to lead to. 'Oh well, he'll get to find out for himself soon enough anyway. As long as I can keep The Man in good graces…oh yeah…him…' Craig started down the steps, shuddering as he wondered if The Man had somehow learned about his meeting with Jeff Carson. The Man seemed to find anyone wherever they were without a phone call or any prior warning. You just felt a sifting mental fog, a dizzying, empty, bewildering daze…and there he would be.

"Hey, watch your feet!" Jeff warned a moment too late. Craig had been too preoccupied peering down the alley, looking for a looming figure in a suit and fedora waiting for him, that he didn't see the greasy stack of crushed Hi-Way Pizza boxes; dumped there by an overworked server waiting tables for a birthday party. Down the stairs Craig tumbled, landing with a soggy crunch on the asphalt. In keeping an optimistic outlook, Craig was lucky in that his face was able to cushion his landing, and his world promptly went dark.

. . .

"Oh Rig…oh Rig! What did you do, what did you do?!" Haruko tisked and chided as she followed Naota around the alley corner. They came upon Rig and Craig, the former trying to hoist the latter into a fireman's carry.

"I didn' do shit!" Rig snapped, almost standing Craig upright, but dropped him onto a pile of garbage bags. "Damn it all…stand up! Klutz McTwo-Left-Feet here tripped down the stairs and knocked himself out. Can one of y'all help me out here?"

"I'll get this arm, you get the other." Naota offered. He and Rig hauled a conked-out Craig through the parking lot and, once Haruko put the tailgate down, deposited him into the bed of Rig's truck. For this venture, Rig had put the Bronco's cap back on, so Craig was hidden from easy view. "So, we got what we came for right? What now?"

"Oh yeah, we got some good info buddy." Rig said and started the Bronco with its usual rumble. "Now we've just gotta get to Clearfield 'fore Sleepin' Beauty wakes up."

"I gotta say, from a pro to an amateur…" Haruko appraised, looking between a nervous twitch Rig, who was running a continuous scan of his mirrors, and a snoozing Craig. "That wasn't half bad. You did alright." Rather, she thought to herself, a little too well. Either Rig had gotten extremely lucky in his meeting with Craig, or he'd had some sort of training. He hadn't used pliers or jumper cables and a car battery, so no training like hers in the G.S.P.B….but at minimum some coaching. If asked, she wouldn't have been able to identify _what_ the smell was coming from; but the fact that something around her was giving off some serious funk, was undeniable.

'And if Craig's description if even half correct…' She replayed her own mental recording of the interview. Haruko's memory may have been selective, but what it did hold onto, it latched into with steely jaws. 'I'd say a Man in Black is in the neighborhood; mucking up the place as usual. Something to think about. No way to contact him, of course; that's just soooo like Medical Mechanica. Seems like sticking around is actually going to pay off, _this time_. I'll just have to be patient…'

. . .

"Oh Craig…poor, poor Craig. I'm so disappointed." The Man in Black turned to watch an orange and black '78 Bronco emerge from a side street and thunder north, bound for Clearfield. The Man slowly shook his head, checking his pocketwatch. "And you'd done such talented work; it was a delight to see you perform. Given some guidance, you stood a respectable chance of coming into your own. But I did warn him about his philandering, and how it would undo him…poor Craig…" He snapped his watch closed. The hands he'd been studying had stopped. "But now your part in this story is over; and time to see if Clyde can build on your foundations."

"Here's the check, no hurry." The waitress smiled, laying the booklet down on The Man's table. He had chosen the veranda seating to better take in the humid and lung-filling richness of the evening air. "Thanks for choosing the Y's café, come again!"

"I'll make a point of it, thank you." He smiled and readied to leave. On the sidewalk now, he began strolling south for the trailer park along the banks of the Red Moshannon. 'They'll be going to the station in Clearfield, I believe…' The Man paused to reopen his pocketwatch, putting his thumb to the smallest face; at the bottom of the main face, and closed his eyes. A blink of time later he reopened them, stowed his watch again in his waistcoat and carried on.

"That should settle things. I'm sorry Craig, but business is business. Now…how did that one go? Hmm-hmm…no…ah, yes. *Hmmm-hmmm, hmm, hmm-hmm! Hmm-hmmm, hmm, hmm-hmm! Hit the road Jack…and don'cha come back no more, no more, no more, no more! Hit the road Jack, and don'cha come back no more! What'd you say?! Hit the road Jack…and don'cha come back no more, no more, no more, no more! Hit the road Jack, and don'cha come back no mooorrreee…* Oh, listen to me! I sound ridiculous. But, it is such a catchy little song…"

. . .

"'Kay Craig. Come on! Up 'n' at 'em!" I encouraged, Natoa and I attempting to heave him standing. He must've fallen a lot harder than I thought; especially since he was barely cognizant after a half hour ride. The golf ball sized lump formin' on his noggin' didn't help none either. "Yoo-hoooo…anyone home in there?"

"Uhhhnnngggg…" At least the lights are on.

"You sure it's okay to let him get on the train like this?" Naota wanted to know for some weird reason. He turned Craig's head so he could take a look at a pair of out of focus eyes. "I'm kinda an expert at getting hit on the head, and I gotta say, he doesn't look too good."

"Have you already forgotten the derailed train, four burned down houses and five blown up trucks?" We each got an arm and started hauling him to the platform. Haruko was content to watch us struggle with Craig, who'd developed all the coordination of a marionette controlled by a whacked-out crackhead with late-stage Parkinson's. "And all the underage pussy he was screwing; amongst other things?"

"All very good points." Naota tilted Craig's head back again to speak to his face. "Sorry Craig…but fuck you man. You're one messed up piece of work."

"Nnnggghhhuuu…" Craig moaned in response. Look who's comin' around. "Whhhh…whuuuu…hhaaa…pppeennnd?"

"Ah shit, here comes the conductor." I'd hoped to toss Craig into his seat with his ticket pinned to his collar. We'd gone through his wallet and his credit card had bought him a very swanky first-class ticket on a non-stop train to South Bend, Indiana. Hey, just because I'm shippin' him out of town doesn't mean he's gotta ride economy. By-the-by, just for giggles, look up how much a first-class on a non-stop Amtrak costs these days. "Nao', conductor's comin'…" She was walking down the platform with ticket snippers in one hand, radio in the other, and a bad attitude all over. "Just be cool, and play along so we don't get the cops called on us."

"Okay, sure…how do we do that?"

"By acting like we're White-Girl-Wasted."

"Heh-heh-heh…that, I can do." Good to know, I'll be remembering that.

"Now boarding Car Three! Now boarding Car…" The Conductor announced, but was cut off by the drunken slob two bodies to my left…I mean, by Naota.

"Pssshhhh-yyeeeaaaayyyy! YO! T'uhmm…Ticket Lady!" He shouted and both've us dissolved into genuine giggles; this was too stupid to be really happening. "You! Ticket lady, person…with the hat!"

"Oh Lord…" I could already tell she was not getting' paid nowhere near enough to deal with our shit. "The hell you want, yah dang winos?"

"The, the choo-choo, ride the choo-choo…" I pointed, wagging my free hand at the steaming engine.

"Snrkt! You said choo-choo…" Natoa 'Chuckles' Nandaba, snorted.

"Lord, what did I do in a past life?" The Conductor demanded to know. "You comin' from a party or something?"

"Uhhhhmmmmmm-hmmmm! Thish _man_ right ch'here!" I rattled Craig, mostly to check if he was still in this universe. "Turned the big Two-One! Came alllll…the way back from Yoder Dame to party wish hish pallllsshh."

"But he's got ah test…testy…testy-ees…testes…hee-hee-hee…testes…" Naota completely lost it over his own humor. Man he's a real showman, ain't he? A true natural if you let him some lee-way.

"Oh whatever." The Conductor was pinchin' either side of her nose, right next to her eyes real tight. "Just put him on the train and get stumbling your drunk-selves off my platform. You don't have to go home, but you sure's hell can't stay here."

"Yeesssss….ma'am!" I gave a tooth-filled smile and we dragged Craig aboard. We got him settled in his seat, and even leaned it back for him. Ain' we neighborly? Yukkin' it up, slappin' each other's backs Naota and I disembarked and passed the Conductor, doffing our G&R hats in low, sweeping bows as we went.

"Go and sober up!" She yelled, hopping aboard the train as its whistle blew and began rolling. We made it back to the parking lot, and a smilin' and waitin' Haruko.

"You two belong in the circus!" She laughed as the train gathered speed and trundled down the track. "Just had to put on a show, hog all the attention."

"And what a show it was indeed!" I declared and unlocked my Bronco.

"I still say we should've just slowed down, tossed him onto the platform and left."

"And that's why you're not in charge." Naota countered as I started up and for home. "Besides, you're not the one who's gonna wake up in the dead of morning, in Indiana."

"Hmm…" She gave it some thought, or pretended to." Nah, I don't get it; don't see your point."

"Figures." He shrugged. "But hey Rig! We did it! Craig's good and gone! No more derailed trains, no more blown up trucks."

"Nao', not to piss in yer punch bowl…you do remember there's _seven_ Kauffman brothers, right?"

. . .

We made it back to town in good time and at the perfect moment. I took us past the Y', and the detour was worth it. A frothin' at the mouth, ragin' an' irate mob of fathers, uncles, brothers and cousins were in the parking lot, watching and cheering the glow of something eating a huge hole in the ozone layer. I slowed so we could get a better look, and saw what was left of Craig's pride and joy. His 2006 Civic, tricked out to high-heaven, had been torched and turned into a flaming hulk. Naota was quick to notice the crowd's armament, a collection of baseball bats, tire irons and metal pipes.

"Looks like Craig's fan club is having a bar-b-que in his honor." Haruko remarked from the backseat. "Humans really do take the whole 'don't ever mess with my kid' thing pretty seriously don't they?"

"That we do. For many of those guys over there, their family is everything; the reason they get outta bed in the morning." I tried to give her some perspective. "To have done what Craig has, is not just him physically having sex; but also a massive middle finger to that girl's family. It's basically him saying 'I'm treating your daughters like living gym socks and there's fuck-all you're gonna do about it. So sit back, and watch this.' Startin' to make sense now?"

"Well…when yah put it that way…"

"And I think his obsession with burning things adds to that." Naota chimed in as I crossed the Red Moshannon into Chester Hill. "For him, things are…disposable. But he doesn't like to reflect on or be reminded of what he does, so he burns it all away. I mean, he never burned the girls he had sex with; that we know of. So he had to substitute with burning other stuff; like houses."

"Hello?! Hey! Are you there?!" Haruko yelled from the peanut gallery. "Yo! Anyone home?!"

"Goddammit woman, tha' hell's tha matter with you?!" I demanded as she cackled herself into conniptions and kicked the back of the front seat.

"I'm sorry, it's just that you two were getting so deep, I couldn't hear you anymore. Like, soooo deep, really philosophical, waaaayyyy down there."

"I ask ONE serious question…"

"And you really expected ONE serious answer?" Touche, Naota.

"C'mon! Let's not kill the buzz talking about Craig, it's time to celebrate!" Haruko leaned over the seat to point, shoving Naota down to use as a platform and waggled her hand right in front of my vision. "Look-it! Hi-Way's right there! It's Pizza-Thirty Rig!"

. . .

"How'd it go with Craig?" George asked. Naota and Haruko had said their goodnight and gone home. Now I was giving my report to George and Tommy. I'd give it again to The Dogs when the three of us were done.

"He's alive, can't have gone too bad." Tommy said. "I heard over the scanner the fire department responding to a burning car outside the YMCA."

"It was…mixed." I admitted, laying the tape recorder on the desk. "He said a lot, and nothing at the same time. He basically admitted he'd done everything we accused him of. But, we don't have any additional names besides the ones we already have, future plans, or a method of figuring either of those out. But, he alluded to a broader conspiracy in local governments too; in addition to the police."

"I had a feeling the cancer had spread…." George sounded immensely disappointed in his fellow Man. "But didn't think it would go after mayors and city councils. Too late to stop it now. If I had done something sooner…" He trailed off in regretful thought.

"So then what?" Tommy pressed for more.

"I sent a message to Craig's contacts, remind me to thank Josh a million times for that little miracle he whipped up, and turned Craig into a pariah. After that, he agreed to leave, but he tripped going down the back steps and conked out on the pavement. While he was down, and before Naota and Haruko showed up, I checked him for anything illicit." Hey, gotta do your civic duty. "And found this little number."

I plunked down on the desk an inner-waistband holster, two spare seven round magazines, and a Walther PPK. Oh yes, the 0.380 auto pistol of James Bond fame, you read that right. Mister Craig fancied himself a lady's man, and what greater lady's man ever lived than Bond…James Bond. That aside, I realized my evening had been ridiculously, stupid-lucky. It was a miracle I wasn't filled with 9mm holes and stuffed into the Y's dumpster.

"Craig was carrying this on him, and since they don't allow guns on trains, I relieved him of that hassle should he get stopped. Indiana's a nice state, with the Amish and all, he won't be needing a gun there. But yeah, after I searched him, Naota, Haruko and I drove him to Clearfield and put him on a non-stop for Indiana."

"Good, very, _very_ good." Both George and Tommy nodded in approval. "This little op went off without a hitch, you handled it well. Josh is going to finish picking apart the data from Craig's phone tomorrow…so I think we've managed to stop the chaos for a while."

"Hey, same's I told Naota. There's _seven_ Kauffmans." George and Tommy looked at each other, two differing philosophies butting heads again. George would have us wait and see. Tommy wanted to start knocking on doors first thing in the morning.

"Well…?" George and Tommy both asked. "What's _your_ plan?" At the moment, I was feeling swollen with confidence. The op had gone off smoother than new pavement and I felt the illusionary solidarity of can-do-no-wrong under my boots. Word would get around that Craig had been removed from the equation by one way or another, and his brothers would be rattled by the news. Rattled in my mind equaled vulnerable.

"Soundin' like a broken record, but there's seven of 'em. Well, six now. We'd best get started on the rest; work our way on up. What do we know about…Clyde?"

. . .

"Sir?...Sir…Sir!"

"Mrrpphhfflllmmuuugghhh…n'whut? Where am I?" Craig came to, nearly blinded by the fluorescent brilliance of the carriage and the station outside. The sudden surge of throbbing to his head didn't help either.

"Your stop, sir." A Conductor informed him. He gestured to the ticket stub tucked into Craig's shirt pocket. "Welcome to South Bend, Indiana. That must have been one barn burner of a party your friends threw you."

"Did I sleep the whole way?" Craig stood, wobbling while he found his balance; his brain felt like it was on fire. "And…party?"

"You woke up about halfway through Ohio, went to the galley, drank about six bottles of water and went right back to sleep." The Conductor shepherded him to the door and the cool darkness outside. "Like I said, a real ringer of a twenty-first. Two of your friends dropped you off, I think they're owed a thank you phone call. Anyway, thank you for riding with Amtrak, have a good night!" The Conductor drew up the stairway, closed the carriage's door and the train continued its journey west.

"Ohhh…wait a minute…shit." As Craig's brain came back online, it dawned on him just how sideways his evening had gone. It was now, he checked his phone to find its battery dead, he checked the clock above the closed ticket office…four in the morning. He was also two states removed from home. His phone, as mentioned, was dead. And worst of all, it felt like he was being watched. A sifting fog slithered into his mind, adding to his already aching concussion. He couldn't think straight, rubbing his temples and eyes, and gentle shakes to his head didn't clear it. Something was dreadfully wrong. With his vision's edges blurring in and out, and his mind filling with grey, he forced his uncooperative legs to propel him outside; back under the awning on the platform. In the fresh air his head cleared, vision widened, and ears pricked up…tuning into a pair of steadily approaching feet.

 _Click…clack…click…clack…_ they came, echoing off the bricks of the empty station. An invisible hand palmed his head, sinking in its nails to secure its grip and force his head to turn; to look back in morbid curiosity despite all of his being screaming to do anything but. _Click…clack…click…clack…_ A pair of black shoes piously polished to a mirror sheen. Black slacks. A trim, custom-tailored four piece suit. Jingling, a silver pocketwatch chain flashed in front of a glossy waistcoat. Tight leather gloves grasped an attache case in one hand, a long coat in the other. Finally, a wry smile, a face hidden behind smoked sunglasses and under a wide brimmed fedora. _Click…clack…click…cl-clack-ack._

"Good morning, Mister Kauffman." The Man in Black greeted, his smile growing on pace with Craig's dread. "We need to have a…little chat. Man-to-man."

. . .

He didn't waste a single breath with explanations, excuses or hotly worded arguments. He didn't simply wait for The Man in Black to begin their 'little chat.' Craig just ran. He didn't know why, but instinct shot him out from under the pavilion, sent him scampering across the parking lot and into the inky darkness. It was a rash decision, but what else was there? He only had a vague idea where he was, his phone was dead, and there wasn't another soul around. And, as he realized in growing panic, his gun was missing. The little Walther PPK he'd carried at the small of his back; plus its holster, and spare magazines were gone too.

'Carson must've searched me when I tripped down the stairs! Damn it, you've killed me!" He swore and crossed another set of tracks, hopped a fence and entered a railyard depot. Now he slipped under and between boxcars and tankers, barking his shins on the rails in his haste. Not once had he looked back, his only focus was distance.

'Gotta hide, gotta hide!' He wheezed, his old cigarillo and new vaporizer habits clogged his lungs. Ahead was one of the railyard's warehouses, and a door had been mercifully propped open. Craig slipped inside, making sure to latch the door behind him. No obvious hiding places presented themselves in the warehouse's gloom…except…

'This should do.' Craig swung himself up and down into a large wooden crate, pulling down the lid after him. 'I'll just wait here 'till morning and see about getting a ticket back home. Well…then again, I don't want to get shot stepping off the train. Maybe that vacation idea isn't so bad. I hear California's nice this time of year. I know I could use a vacation right about now…oh fuck. He's here.'

 _Crrreeeeeaaa…eeaaaa-click._ The door swung open, then swung shut. _CLUNK._ And now, the locking bar had been set. Slow, deliberate click-clacks sounded off the crates and boxes. Craig tried peering through his crate's slats, looking for a lighter's flame or flashlight's beam. The Man in Black seemed to be finding his way around just fine without either, his focus on a large pocketwatch in his left hand; while his right hand was grasped on something inside his suit and under his left armpit. The Man in Black turned around twice while getting his bearings, looking between his watch and the warehouse. Finally, he looked up and focused on the crate Craig had chosen. _SNAP!_ The Man in Black closed his pocketwatch, stowed it in his waistcoat…and smiled.

"There you are Craig. Found you."

. . .

"LET! ME! OUT!" Craig hammered against the confines of the crate. The Man in Black had latched the lid closed before Craig could mount an escape attempt or resist valiantly. Now he was being wheeled on a cart, out into the railyard. "Come on, let me go! I thought we were gonna have a chat, yah know, talk?!"

"That opportunity ran away when you ran away from me at the station." The Man explained, pulling the cart over a set of tracks. "I gave you the chance to discuss things civilly as an adult, and you ran like a naughty child."

"Discuss things, discuss what?!"

"Oh, if it will make you feel better, and stop complaining." The Man sighed and stopped the cart astride a set of tracks that ran straight through the yard. "Mister…Craig, Kauffman. I am here to inform you our contract has become null and void. You have violated the terms of which, and in the process, become more hindrance than asset."

"Oh-kay…could you explain that again, but _not_ in legal-speak?"

"To be, what's the word…frank. Yes, to be frank, you talked. You have been compromised, blackmailed, and can no longer operate in your home region without being hung from a telephone pole. All after I specifically warned you this would happen if you didn't take the necessary steps. And now, I'm here for your comeuppance."

"For Christ's sake, I didn't give him any names or anything! What's the big deal?! I mean, what's he gonna do, call the cops?!"

"Do you recall…" The Man in Black ignored his questions. "The warning I gave you at Roman's?"

"Uh…no?"

"Naughty little boys that play with fire get burned; and you'll be next if you're not careful. I cautioned you to not let your flames of passion burn too bright." The Man recounted. "You have thrust your way down a path of fornication and wanton, indiscriminate lust; and it has been your downfall. I will never keep a pact with a Human that spends its time publicly rutting with any female in heat it comes across; and then shamefully loses its spine at the slightest twist of the screws."

 _Cl-click._ The cylinder in Craig's head turned, and brought to battery the implication of The Man in Black's words. Now trembling in terror and jittery adrenaline, he struggled against his confines. The wood failed to yield despite him bashing his knuckles and elbows raw, cutting his scalp on the lid, and jamming his toes when he kicked and stomped. Momentarily spent, he paused to see if he'd made any progress. Instead, he saw The Man pull something from a coat pocket. A red cylinder inscribed in black, block letters with: AN-M14 INCEN TH3.

"This was something I kept for myself, I wasn't quite sure for what purpose. It was just a whim, but now, a purpose has been found." The Man in Black explained, examining the grenade that had been missing from the box Craig had been given.

"It has?"

"I have traveled to planets so numerous I have long stopped keeping track. I have also been watching you, Humans, for years now. Between your own and those other planets I have helped harvest, I have experienced a revelation about your species; and I think it's most relevant. It concerns what your race has dubbed Love, and Lust. They are not unique to your planet, quite common to be found really. Several common themes present themselves, even across light years." The Man spoke in a calm, soothing tone, cradling Craig's ears in his hands.

"Love, and fire, are intertwined flames, Mister Kauffman. A fire, like Love, must be tended, cared for from its inception. If held at an optimal distance and attended properly, it will warm your body, and your soul as well. Too close, and you will risk burns and even smothering that fire to death. You, Mister Kauffman, did neither. What you engaged in was not Love, but _Lust._ You were negligent in caring for your fires, setting more than you could ever hope to control. Furthermore, you only saw them as playthings. Each new flash of heat and light dazzled your eyes, and you danced, feeding the flames without a worry of where the flying sparks landed. All it took was one stray spark, an unintended consequence, carelessness in your watch, and the woods have caught fire. Now the forest that is your world will burn beyond control, burn to ashes."

"P…p-please…you don't have, don't have to do this…"

"Goodbye, Mister Craig Riley Kauffman." The Man in Black placed the thermite grenade atop the crate, and with a ringing _Ping!_ Pulled loose the pin. Craig screamed and pleaded with The Man, rattling the crate to try and shake off the grenade; all while desperate tears began staining his face. The Man turned a deaf ear, pivoted on his heel and began vanishing back into the morning dark.

"Plleeeeeaaaaasssee! Heh, hic! Puh, puh-leeaasseee! Don't do this! I don't wanna dieeee…" Craig's bid for mercy echoed off the railcars, alerting no one to his impending doom. "Help! Someone help me! _SAVE ME!_ " And for a moment, The Man in Black stopped. He looked back, with his wry, knowing smile leering back at Craig.

"Save you? Save…you? _Save…you?_ **HA!** " The smile widened to a toothy, mad-hatter grin. "Save you? But, Mister Kauffman…I AM." As soon as Craig head those last words, the grenade ignited. A torrent of white-hot, liquid metal poured into the crate, dousing Craig in a burning to the bone pain. He twitched, rolled and writhed, too distracted in his agony try breaking out again. Brushing, slapping and shaking the splashing sparks did nothing once they had bitten into his flesh and began eating their way through skin, muscle, ligament, bone and nerve; then exiting back out again through the other side.

Now his clothes flared, melting and fusing to him in a fuming, smoldering second skin. Lastly the crate itself went up, roasting him and filling his lungs with burning paint fumes and wood ash. Coughing, choking, blinded by the brilliance of thermite and the dark stinging of smoke, his body riddled with ever-growing burned, charred, bleeding and sucking holes, his struggles lessened as his coffin burned and pyre raged. Every tenth of a second was an hour of agony, worsened by his diminishing ability to resist, and even move. Subdued by the fire, his final sensations were the searing of shrilly bawling nerves, the crawling prickle of crackling skin, and smothering crush of suffocation. Before the lights went off for good, Craig's eyes and brain recorded one last scene: A column of growing flames, pointed, waggling fingers outstretched to the heavens in a final flash of brilliant defiance; scrabbling vainly for a sky they would never reach…and then, nothing more.

. . .

It truly was a sight to behold: The Grand Temple. The central hub of all other places of knowledge, wisdom and guidance, spread across the planet. It towered grander and more magnificent than even the poshest high rise. And, The Head thought, as he strolled down the boulevard, that's how it ought to be. The Grand Temple's sand toned stone walls, polished fervently to a brilliant sheen, twinkled in the afternoon sun; a winking beacon of enlightenment.

The Head made his way without a security team or escort of Marines. After all, this was the capital, City of Megadon; the safest city for planets around. About him the city thrummed, citizens flowed in and out of shops, perused Temple Papers on sidewalk benches, or waited for one of the trams that shuttled along an endless loop throughout the city.

"…Production has increased by two-point-three percent in wheat…" One of the Templevision kiosks proudly announced as The Head passed, skirting the small crowd of suited businessmen and clerks listening to the latest news. The kiosks had been strategically distributed to keep everyone informed of the goings on of The Red Star of The Solar Federation, continuously updating and broadcasting tirelessly day and night. "Meanwhile, terrorism has struck again on the Frontier Planets…"

Ah yes, the Frontier Planets, and their ever-evolving terrorists. It was always something. Bombings, rocket attacks, shootings. But as the dust of each event settled, a slew of laws and directives were bequeathed from The Priests to maintain peace and order. And each time, new methods were found. Now stabbings, sabotaged vehicles and attacks via computers and related networks ruled the day. If anything positive came of it all, at least the attacks galvanized the peoples of The Red Star of The Solar Federation, banding them together to fight the cowardly scourge that menaced them all. Well…that was the Templevision and Temple Paper's take on the matter; not The Head's. He kept his own opinions on the issue of the terrorists, and many other matters, in the last truly private place in the entire Federation: his own mind.

To be fair, life in the Federation and especially the capital, was certainly ideal. When The Head compared it to earlier times of his career, spent under the atmospheric domes of the Frontier Planets, there was no contest. Here crime had been virtually eradicated. There was not a single atmospheric dome to be found. Instead, a modern, glittering society of glass, polished metal, stone and fine lines had been built for those, who ensured the society's function, to relax and live in worry free, careless tranquility. The Priests had provided it all through their grand visions, weaving together their benevolent teachings and the calculations of their ingenious Machines housed within their Temples. They directed and developed the quality of every facet of life from books to music, play and work. And Medical Mechanica was the implementer of The Priest's will, ensuring their directives were carried out to the letter. It was an honorable occupation; and the reason The Head was visiting the Grand Temple that day.

'And both Moons are out today, that's surely a sign of something.' The Head looked up, seeing the twin, pale orbs lazily tracing across the sky. Both were dead planets, ones that had refused to open their ears to The Priest's songs.

"Sir! I beg your pardon." A Courier had found him, case shackled to his wrist. "But this was received with an Urgent type marker."

"Urgent?" The Head asked. They were now on the sprawling, half-mile wide terrace that preceded and surrounded the Grand Temple. Seeing no one within reasonable distance, he asked for the message. "If that's the case, then let's have it." The Courier checked the case's time, then used his thumbprint to unlock it. Inside was the standard single sheet of paper, folded once in half. The Head withdrew it, unconcerned about security when he was a stone's throw from the Grand Temple's doors. Still, he held it close so only his eyes were privy.

'To the Head Director and Chief Officer of the Medical Mechanica Industries' The header read. 'A report from True Believers assigned to the 262nd Expedition. The timeline still holds. Rumors of local dissent growing. All have been thus far unsubstantiated. One of seven initial contacts compromised. Terms of contract violated through contact's moral failings and an unknown third party. Investigation will be made to prevent a recurrence. Contact in violation has been addressed and relieved of responsibility. Will update at scheduled intervals and as events warrant. May the blessings of The Priests be with you.'

The Head finished reading and refolded the paper, committing its contents to memory. Patting his suit, he searched for his lighter.

"Please, allow me Sir." The Courier extended an open lighter, its flame dancing bright.

"Ah, many thanks." The Head lit the message, pinching it between his fingertips until it had burned in its entirety to ash. "I require no reply to be sent. Thank you for your services, you are dismissed." The Courier nodded, saluted and departed with his case.

'So an Operative on Earth has killed one of his Scouts.' The Head thought, taking the steps of the Grand Temple three at a time. 'And for moral failures as part of the reasons. We certainly wouldn't want someone that clashed with The Priests, would we? But, as I understand it, potential Scouts on Earth can be found behind every rock, bush and tree. This shouldn't slow an Operative down, they're the best at what they do after all. But now…time to focus. You're meeting with The Priests. Deep breath, straighten your tie. Check your pocketwatch and its chain, and your shoes are clean. All is well.' The Head ran over one last cursory check of himself before approaching the massive doors.

"You are expected." A sonorous voice boomed from above. "Please. Enter, and be at peace." By itself, one of the doors swung open and The Head quickly slipped inside; the door showing its immense weight by crashing tightly shut behind him.

. . .

* * *

Songs and translations:

*Hit the Road Jack - Ray Charles

Whooo-eeee...was that somethin' or what? Craig sure could act like a charmer when it came to the ladies, but he was downright nasty when he wanted to be. And now, as The Man in Black said, he has gotten his comeuppance. I only notice now the irony of him meeting his end in a train yard, when he had derailed a coal train himself. Poetic justice I suppose, the spirit of that train getting its revenge perhaps.

I always find myself torn between trying to give hints as to what is coming, but without giving too much away, or sounding grossly cliche. If you're putting things together, my kudos to you. If not, and even if you have, you'll just have to keep reading. Now that Craig is gone, things are going to start picking up; especially once his brothers figure out what the hell just happened. And, if Craig is any indicator, their reaction will not be based on 'forgive and forget.'

And finally, we come back to Medical Mechanica. Having an antagonist that previously was virtually nonexistent except in name and robots, have been probably one of the best parts of writing this fic. I get to play planet/society maker, and y'all...it's awesome! The Head, now known as the 'Head Director and Chief Officer of Medical Mechanica Industries' is going to be the eyes we see his world through, unless for some reason I make up ANOTHER character. Highly unlikely. But you have mentioned in reviews and messages how you enjoyed the look into M-M's realm, and that is a trend that will continue.

Lastly, thank you all again for reading. As I have said, it would be ideal for a chapter every two weeks or so, rather than every two months. But now that I have gotten settled, and work is slowing down with the season, I hope to up my productivity. You have all been beyond patient, and I will continue to thank you every time. Thank you for reading, and your feedback, I really do appreciate it. See y'all in October...


	10. Chapter 10

Checking the calendar, it's October and that means an update to FLCL: The Pennsylvania War! So here we are, as was foretold. I had hoped to get this out in September, but I restarted playing World of Tanks, and we all know how that song and dance goes. My M4A3E8 Sherman was getting dusty in the garage. Moving on from my slacking off, I'm hoping this chapter will introduce some new intrigue and players onto the scene, and that you'll appreciate their performance. Please enjoy your FLCL version of an October Surprise!

* * *

. . .

Clyde Kauffman's early mid-afternoon snack was interrupted by a rat-ah-tat-tat knock at his door. Committed to finishing his third slice of pizza, he ignored it. Again, the visitor knocked, this time rattling the door's tin sheathing. Throwing down a half-eaten slice, he set about heaving himself out of his chair. His immense bulk made it an arduous process and by the time he finally made it to standing, then across the living room, through the kitchen and to the door, his breath came in deep, labored gasps. And still, that rat-ah-tat-tat!

"I'm…*huff*…coming! *Huff* Just a sec'!" He jerked the door open, wondering who had the gall to disturb him at 2:37 PM on a Monday.

"Hello there, Mister Clyde Kauffman!" The Man in Black greeted pleasantly. His face was was impossible to read, hidden as it was, but his smile and voice certainly were cheerful. "How do I find you, on this fine day?"

"Doin' alright. Haven't heard from Craig for a few days though…you seen him around? His car got burned up at the Y. Cole's lookin' into it, but no one's saying anything." It had been three days since Craig had talked to any of his brothers, and all calls were going straight to voicemail.

"No, I'm terribly sorry to say I haven't." The Man said. "But I have heard all sorts of _nasty_ rumors around town. It seems Craig was a busy man, and popular with the young ladies; but not in good graces with their male relatives. I did warn him about controlling his habits…perhaps his lifestyle choices caught up to him in some way?" Clyde felt a crawl ripple across his flesh at The Man's answer. He couldn't tell if The Man was really wondering if Craig had been forced to flee Philipsburg…or was subtly insinuating at something else more, sinister. The Man had been visiting at Clyde's trailer the last time Craig had been seen, and The Man had also stayed until six o'clock in the morning. There was no way he could've had a hand in Craig's disappearance. Unless, The Man in Black could somehow be in two places at once. But, as strange as The Man was, Clyde highly doubted that. "And he'd done such good works. I hope he is found soon. He is already sorely missed."

"Got that right. It's the first time in fourteen years one of us missed Sunday dinner. Cole, well, Cole wasn't too happy about that."

"You, and your brothers, have my deepest sympathies, and Craig will be in my prayers. In the meantime, there is still much to be done. Are you ready? I have high expectations of you; after Craig's performance."

"Yeah, I'm ready. C'mon in, let me show you what I got in the mail today." Clyde invited The Man into his trailer, and after a quick look around the park for any prying eyes, pulled his door tightly shut; rattling the tin once more.

. . .

If Mr. Pike had to describe natural gas exploration in his own terms, he'd liken it to an invasion. An army of workers would descend upon an unsuspecting tract of land, clearing paths for trucks, establishing a base of operations, and conquering the wilderness as they went along. Tractor trailers were their supply line. Bulldozers their tanks. Surveying helicopters their air force. Main sites, where the workers lived, their fire-bases. Their drilling rigs, nimble compared to oil derricks, were their artillery. Pike Natural Gas Co. rolled as a perfectly coordinated juggernaut, with a veteran force; both as in experienced in the industry and the hiring of former military. The phrase 'military precision' didn't do the operation justice. Or rather…it did, until workers started to drop.

. . .

Ahhh…all was relatively okay-ish in the universe when all extenuating circumstances were factored into the Grand Scheme of Things, the 'Big Picture'. The only worry I was concerned about was that my coffee machine in the office worked, and since it did, my morning was just hunky-dory. Over the weekend we'd expected Craig to come rollin' back into town, madder'n hell with ah Molotov Cocktail in each hand…or something in that key. I hoped for his sake he'd taken my advice and was on a train for California. He'd do well there, I'd even go's far to say he'd fit right in. But now that it was Tuesday, it looked increasingly less likely he'd ever grace Central Pennsylvania with his presence ever again; and I was completely fine with that.

That Tuesday in particular had started dark and muggy, and as I poured my first coffee, began raining cats, dogs, rabbits, toads, pigs, miniature horses and friggin' honey badgers. Naota, Haruko and Canti sprinted the last few yards across the lot and headed inside the shop. I had my hand on the office door to go say my good mornings when the phone rang.

"Good morning, salutations and peace be upon you. This's G&R Fabrication and Cranes, Jeff speaking."

"Good morning Jeff. This is Mister Pike." He needn't have bothered with the clarifier. Mr. Pike's pacing, slow and clear, was a unique signature. It was exceedingly rare for him to showcase any kind of excitement, even less than the laid-back Mr. King, so it was impossible to tell if anything was bothering him. "I would like to speak with George, please."

"Alllll-righty, he's not available at the, never mind, he just got in. Mister Pike for yah George." I handed off the receiver as a soggy George and Tommy dripped their way in.

"This's George, how're…uh-huh…uh-huh…uh-huh…oh. Oh, damn. Did he make it? Ok. Yes. They're on their way, yes. Alright, thank you very much. Let me know if the family needs anything. Keep me posted. M'bye."

"We going to Pike's?" I asked, pulling on my coat. Tommy was doing the same and headed out the door. "What happened?"

"Yes, yes you're going, and going five minutes ago!" George followed me out into the rain. "One of his guys just keeled over and is in the hospital. They won't know for sure until blood work's done, but Pike suspects poison."

"Poison?!" Tommy had his truck started and cracked the window. "Makes him say that?!"

"Dunno. Ask him when you get there, can't risk saying any more over the phone."

. . .

If Mr. Pike was rattled or perturbed by one of his workers being poisoned, he hid it well. Serious, stoic and methodical in his behavior and speech, he sat sternly at his desk. It felt to Tommy and I like we were in the principal's office, after starting a food fight or snowball war at school. He was finishing up a shift change to cover for unforeseen absences.

"Mister Carson, and, Mister Carson…" He hung up and took a deep, furious sigh. "Thank you for coming on such short notice."

"That's what friends are for, Mister Pike." Tommy said. "Hopefully this will be something that won't require action on our part. All the same, walk us through what happened."

"I really do appreciate it. Now, I was not completely honest with George." Mr. Pike admitted. "But, you know better than I that _they_ are always listening."

"Well, unless there's a microphone in your coffee machine…" I tried on some humor for size, to see if it would fit. It didn't. "Then we should be just fine." I assured, then kept my wise-ass-ness to myself.

"It wasn't just one of my employees that went down. It was the entire rig team."

"The, the whole team?" Tommy stumbled for a moment. "But, that's thirty guys?"

"They all collapsed this morning, a few hours after breakfast. We start very early at three, because working in the afternoon sun is unbearable. Before he passed out, the supervisor was able to call in the problem on the radio." Mr. Pike built his case. "I suspect poisoning because one, or three, or even a handful of illnesses could be dismissed. But a rig team all sleeps in the same barracks, drinks and showers from the same water supply, and eats from the same cafeteria. This means, if one worker were to be poisoned, all of them would be. I would say one of these three places must be the source, I am sure of it."

"You've really given this some thought." Tommy said while we scribbled notes. "Do you have anyone in mind that could be responsible? And, have you been visited by…you know…Him?"

"Yes, to both. That Man in Black showed up at our gate Monday morning, asking to be let in. I told him he was on a private road, trespassing on private property, and if I caught him again, would be putting a bullet between his eyes." Out in the Deep Boonies, the land of coyotes, rattlesnakes, bears, and wanderers with sticky fingers, it was common practice of many gas and oil workers and their supervisors to carry a pistol with them. Usually this was a small revolver, kept safely in the work truck and loaded with snake-shot. Mr. Pike's however, was an M45A1 CQPB, perpetually strapped to his belt. "He said his 'very well's, and left."

"Yikes…" I suppressed a small shiver. Men in Black give me the heebee-jeebees. "You said you had someone in mind?"

"I know _exactly_ who's responsible." Mr. Pike snarled, fangs flashing as his lips pulled back and eyes started to burn. Was it just me, or did the room mysteriously turn a shade darker? "That **_SLUG_** …Clyde Kauffman." He spat, that usually reserved demeanor, that one I literally _just_ told you about, coming undone with hot fury. "Always late for work, lurching around, stealing food from the stores, eating on the job, and constantly bellowing complaints like some retarded seal. If I get my hands on that waddling Fat-Body, I'll squeeze his head so hard the fat'll come pouring his goddamn ears!"

"Mister Pike, sir…" Tommy and I were pressed as far, and as small, into our seats as we could go, scootching away from the raging leviathan across the desk. "Would you like us to give you a minute?"

"Hehm. Excuse me." Mr. Pike composed himself faster than he'd come apart. The Bear went back into its den to sleep for a little longer. "I apologize for that outburst. But, yes. Clyde is my prime suspect. Will you look into this, or will I have to wait for another drill team to collapse?" Mr. Pike reminded us of our initial unwillingness to become involved, and how it had resulted in Herr Dahl's hospitalization. He did not want that series of events to become a trend.

"If it was only one, and if Craig hadn't been found responsible for Dahl, and The Man hadn't shown up, I'd say not yet." Tommy said. "But, none of that is the case. We'll start on this today." He promised, setting mine, Haruko's and Naota's schedules at the same time.

"Thank you, thank you very much." Mr. Pike said, shaking our hands as we stood to leave. "I will keep you as informed as possible, and will let you know what the blood tests show."

"That'll be appreciated." Tommy opened the door, letting in the pounding din of a wall of rain. "Take care of yourself Mister Pike, I know you'll do the same for your men. We'll be in touch. Oh, and the usual meeting will be at the usual place, at the usual time, with the usual crowd. They'll need to know about this." He reminded and Mr. Pike nodded that he understood.

"An entire crew of thirty guys?" I wondered as we got into Tommy's S-10 and compared notes. "How the hell did Clyde manage that?"

"He didn't." Tommy's teeth were clamped on his pen's cap. "In a manner of speaking, that is."

"I'm listening."

"C'mon Rig, you've seen that fat bastard. Could you see Clyde sneaking around out here in Deep Boonies, in the dead hours of night, with the 'yotes, snakes, bears, and rhododendron, then climb on top of water trucks, and just his _wheezing_ not give him away?"

"Nope. Not in a thousand lifetimes."

"I'll bet a year of no Cope' that Clyde's got a team, or at least a minion or a lackey, or someone, doing dirty work." Tommy made his wager. "Craig was a one-man-band, but he was in good enough shape to pull that off. Plus, his actions really only needed one guy anyway. This _reeks_ of something more involved."

"Yeah, can't argue with you there. Clyde probably breaks a sweat getting the mail. He'd never be out here, not without help. Man, why didn't I pick up on that?" I really hate feeling dumb. When yah explain something like that, it always seems so obvious.

"Because you're still learning." Tommy said, smiling at me. "Don't expect to magically be an expert in everything at once; all you'll get is disappointed. I've been at this for twelve years, fourteen if you include my time at the I.I.B., and I still don't really know what I'm doing."

"Oh? You don't?"

"Nope. I think you said it once to Mike. 'None of us never figure out what we're doing. We just get better at _pretending_ we do.' I'm no exception." We both had a laugh at that, the phrase summing perfectly the play-by-ear nature of our occupation.

"Ain' that the truth. Hey, did you remember to take your meds?" In the excitement of the morning, I hadn't seen Tommy take his daily dose.

"Shit, I forgot." He pulled out the orange bottle from his pocket, palmed two pills and swallowed 'em down. "Thanks for reminding me. You'd think it'd just be a habit by now." He started the truck and we headed for Pike's front gate.

"How much longer do you have to take those?"

"Uhhh…another two, three years? I think?" He guessed. "This shit's gotta work its way out at its own pace. All these pills are doing is making sure it doesn't kill me in the meantime. Anyway...major pain in the ass…" He drifted off while we waited for a passing car at the intersection to the main road. As rain pounded down and the wipers swished, Tommy had a thought.

"Rig. Pay close attention to this."

"What's up?" This was obviously important.

"This, Clyde attack worries me. Craig wasn't trying to kill anyone, I think. Or he wasn't trying very hard; if he did, that was just a bonus. Mostly he was just stirrin' shit up. Clyde was, and probably still is, trying to kill people. George and I, and Johnny, Mike and Josh, will advise you best we can, but all the same, be very, _very,_ careful while looking into this. I would even hesitate to let Naota and Haruko help…well...maybe, but we'll discuss that at home."

"Why's that? They've done really well. I still don't trust Haruko for a blink, wink, nothin'…"

"As well you shouldn't." He agreed. "Reason I'm hesitant to let you bring them into this, is that someone who is willing to kill is truly dangerous. They will not hesitate to do you in, or Naota, or anyone else for that matter."

"Got…cha…" I said, feeling the sandbag-heavy thump of Tommy's warning on my ears. 'Till now, disbarring the Medical Mechanica robots and Marines, this'd been a relatively, _relatively_ , fun and games, impressive 'guess what happened to me over summer break' tale for school in the fall. Now, the Nature of Things seemed to have dimmed a shade darker. **_Krak-BOOOooooommmm…_** And the rain was not helping that feeling in the least.

. . .

"Allllllmosssst…allllllmmoooosssstttt…" Josh, Johnny, Mike, Naota and Haruko were transfixed on a progress bar, crawling its way across one of Josh's computer screens. Ding! "And we're decrypted, organized, and done! Let's see what all Craig had on his phone…" It was approaching noon and Rig and Tommy had yet to return. This left Naota and Haruko at the direction of Johnny. While they waited for Josh's program to extract and decrypt the copy of Craig's phone, rain continued to drum on the shop's metal, bare-to-the-rafters, roof.

"Does it always rain this hard here, in August?" Naota asked Mike above the din.

"It _can._ Late summer thunderstorms are known to get pretty bad." Mike explained. "They don't always, usually they're over in an hour. But when a real humdinger swings through, look out. The last one that was really bad, knocked out power for three days."

"So…three days of vacation, right?" Haruko asked.

"Oh no! We have a generator here." Mike crushed Haruko's hopes of a weather-related holiday. "The show must go on, Hell, high water, or thunder and lightning."

"Ho-lee-shite…" Josh swore, bringing everyone's attention back to his computer. "If I were connected to the web right now, we'd have just popped up on the F.B.I.'s list; filed under Child Porn." He'd found Craig's gallery of girlfriends, all fifty-three of them. "I expect a call from Chris Hansen any second now. Moving on, shall we?"

"Contacts…nothing unusual…pictures…nothing relevant, but plenty unusual…" Johnny muttered as he read over Josh's shoulder. "Whoa, whoa. Hold up. What's that one?"

"That's an operation file; a program for running or accessing something." Josh explained, twiddling a spare cigarette between his fingers while dove into the program's files. Naota couldn't make front or back of the lines of text flashing across the screens. Computers and programming really weren't his thing, the text may as well have been in Russian Acrylic to him. Josh, on the other hand, seemed to know exactly what he was looking for. "No way…no way! No fuckin' way!"

"What?! What?!"

"Do you know what this is?!" Josh tapped the screen, bouncing in his seat. "Do you know what this means?!" He tapped again, accidentally crushing the cigarette and spilling tobacco flakes all over his keyboard. He didn't seem to notice.

"No, but I'm sure you're going to tell us." Johnny hinted.

"Okay, so, you know how there's the red light cameras and all the other surveillance ones around town, right? Well, most used to be hard-wired into a network for the cops to access. But, you'd have to be at the station to see the footage. Now the cameras broadcast their footage in digital format, so they can look at live feed in their patrol cars. It's encrypted of course, but if you have a key, and an internet connection, you too can access the cameras in real-time. If I'm reading this correctly…Craig would have been able to use any of the city's cameras whenever he damn well pleased…and on his phone to boot."

"Well, that's certainly terrifying." Naota said, then corrected. "Then again, he probably just used it to spy on people."

"Most likely to try and look up girl's skirts." Haruko added, saying what everyone was thinking.

"What worries me…" Josh ignored them and pressed on, now reading the thousands of lines of code. "Is how well done this is. Craig wrote that logic bomb at King's, which was really impressive I must say, don't get me wrong. That thing was nasty. But it was also _kinda_ sloppy. Good, but not an A-plus. This…" He gestured with both hands at the screen. "Was professionally done. Craig made some tweaks here, here…here, personalizing it. But it looks like someone _gave_ him the keys, so-to-speak."

"He mentioned that, how his brothers had help from the city and police; when Rig interviewed him." Naota recalled.

"So, the real question then is, how many people are involved?" Mike expanded on that fact, thoughtfully stroking his beard while he theorized. "There are a few scenarios. One, Craig straight-up just stole this program; highly doubtful. Two, an insider or mole, stole it for him. Three, they just gave it to him and told him to go nuts. I think the second one is most probable, but wouldn't rule out the third."

"Then…why would he need to watch traffic patterns in person then?" Naota brought up the times Craig had held stakeouts in front of Sarina's and other spots around town.

"Blind spots." Haruko had an answer immediately. "They can't cover everywhere, and he wouldn't want to be caught on camera anyway. But, that would mean he'd have to go watch traffic in person, since there wouldn't be a camera feed for him to use."

"Exactly!" Josh agreed, not looking away from the screen. "That's what I was thinking. Now…how does it work…and how can I use it for against 'em? Huumm…" Josh trailed off, reading a particularly crowded section of green comment text. Sensing four sets of eyes still on him, he waved everyone away. "Y'all may's well find something else to do, this's gonna take me a while to go through."

"That's good actually." Johnny turned to the rolls of shop drawings on the bench next to Josh's computers. The piles of paper were all the projects that they needed to complete. "Oh-ho! Here's a good one. Naota, Haruko, have I got a project for _you two._ "

"Who are we building for today?" Naota asked as Johnny selected a roll and spread the drawings across the bench. "Scomi? King? Penn-Dot?"

"No…no…" Johnny said as he reviewed the paperwork packet that had come with the drawings. "It's funny, really."

"Funny you say?" Haruko was across the table, trying to read the plans upside down. "Oooo…those are cool!"

"We're making…brass knuckles?" Naota recognized the outline of the product they were to fabricate.

"No, see here?" Johnny tapped the information block on the drawing's bottom right. It contained details like customer and project names, drafter, checker, dates and times of the drawings, bore the G&R Fabrication and Cranes seal, and part information as well. "And they're not brass, they're going to be made from scrap steel. Recycling, reduce, reuse, that whole deal. A lot easier to get around here than brass too."

"Novelty…decorative...paperweights. Novelty decorative paperweights?" Naota had to read it twice.

"So _that's_ what we're calling them." Haruko was tracing the production process line with her finger, following the path from scrap material to finished product. "Now it all makes sense, they're what Rig is calling them!" She pointed to Rig's initials, J.R.C., in the drafter's spot in the information block.

"Must be a side project Rig picked up somewhere." Johnny explained, shuffling a few more papers to find something for him and Mike to work on. "But, since he's your direct supervisor, I'd get started on this one right away." He handed Haruko and Naota the packet with some basic instructions Rig had included. "Mike and I have these aluminum tubs to weld, but if you need any help, let us know."

"Willlll…dooooo…" Haruko absentmindedly flipped pages of instructions, scanning Rig's sketches.

"And one last thing!" Johnny reminded as he picked up one of the aluminum welders and drew down his mask. "Please, please, _please_ don't burn yourselves, or light the place on fire!"

. . .

Through the deluge of rain, the Mayors of Osceola Mills and Philipsburg met at the door of Philipsburg City Hall. Both gave the other a brief, acknowledging nod, shook out their umbrellas and headed out of the rain. A joint, private, session of both city governments had been called. Shoulder-to-shoulder, the Mayors entered the Council Chambers and barred the doors behind them; taking care to ensure the locks were set.

"Ah! Perfect. Everyone is here…" A Man in Black stood up from the front and center table. It was between the rows of public seating chairs and the Council's bench, used for whomever was presenting. On it sat his attache case. In his right hand, he held his pocketwatch, its silver case and chain filling both Mayors with petty envy. "And everyone…" He snapped the watch closed and stowed it away into his waistcoat. "Is _precisely_ on time, marvelous."

"Yes, I suppose it is." The Osceola Mayor grumbled as he found his seat, scootching behind Council member's chairs. "So Mister…ah, so for what purpose have you called us here today?"

"Ah, ah, ah! Mister Mayor!" The Man tutted. "You know my rules." He approached the bench with outstretched hands. "Gentlemen, your cell phones please." Begrudgingly, they handed their phones over and watched them placed in The Man's attache case.

"Aren't you taking _theirs_ , as well?" The Philipsburg Mayor cast a suspicious glance up and down the bench.

"He got ours on the way in." One of the Centre County Clerks answered.

"It's funny though…" The Sheriff, elected as dual-officer for both Centre and Clearfield counties, chuckled as The Man locked his case. "He took my phone, but let me and them…" He nodded down the bench at the Chiefs of Police for Osceola Mills and Philipsburg, as well as the Liaison from the Pennsylvania State Troopers. "Keep our guns! Ain't that somethin' else?"

"Officer, that is because…" CL-CLACK. The locks on The Man's case snapped shut. "I am not concerned with your sidearms."

"Now what's that supposed to mean?!" The Liaison's dander was up in a hurry, he was already halfway to standing; nervously tapping toes encased in knee high, polished leather boots.

"It _means,_ you should be _quiet_ , as we are starting now and I would appreciate not being needlessly interrupted." The Man's hackles flared for a flash of a second, but enough that the Liaison suddenly felt terribly small. "Excuse me. Now, this meeting will be short, as I am pressed for time. We will be focusing on updates and status reports! Starting with this end, we shall work our way across. My dear County Clerks, how is our database?"

"Growing every day, and more profound by the minute." The Head of Clerks from Philipsburg reported. "Our list of possible dissidents is nearly complete, the surveillance network, with many thanks to the Police Departments, Sheriff's office and State Patrol, is also fully operational."

"Excellent!" The Man in Black grinned, moving to the City Council and Mayors. "In this play we are to be putting on, have you written our script? I would like to see your preliminary timeline of events."

"We have a copy here for you…" The Philipsburg Deputy Mayor presented ten pages for The Man's review. "We would like your feedback, especially on page seven, paragraph three, section four…"

"Thank you. A moment please." The Man took the papers, strode away from the bench to the far side of the room, and turned his back to the Council. Then he took off his sunglasses. He held them in his left hand at the small of his back by an earpiece, twisting the glasses round and round while he read. The Council, Mayors, Clerks, Officers and Chiefs all craned their necks, leaning in their seats to catch a glimpse of The Man's unmasked face, but he refused to give them the satisfaction. All they gleamed was his incoherent muttering to himself as he speed read the entire ten pages, single-spaced, size twelve font, in exactly thirty seconds. He then began jotting notes into the margins.

"Well…what do you think?"

"It is a good rough draft, but completely unacceptable." Before turning around, The Man had made sure to replace his sunglasses back onto his nose. He then approached the bench, holding the papers like they were a set of scribbles turned in for a college arts final project. "It will have to be completely redone. I have made my suggestions on the margins. Is this the only copy?"

"Yesss…?" The Deputy Mayor slowly answered.

"Are you sure?" The Man focused on the Deputy Mayor, moving down the bench to stand squarely in front of him. "It sounded like you were questioning your own words. Are you, sure?"

"Ahm, I…uh…" Philipsburg's Deputy Mayor waffled. Even though the bench and its seating were raised, he felt as if The Man was towering above him. "There may be the saved Word file on my laptop…"

"Is that it, you laptop? In the bag?" The Man nodded to the case at the Deputy Mayor's feet.

"Y-yes…"

"Did you email this file to anyone, even to yourself, for review or collaboration?" The Man asked, his voice echoing around a deathly silent Chambers.

"W-well…kinda. I saved it to my Google Docs account too, then downloaded it and used the office printer here. I don't understand, wait, what're you doing?!"

"A small favor, to everyone." The Man in Black pulled the laptop from its case, dug his fingernails into the seam along the keyboard and ripped the keyboard free; exposing the wires and inner workings underneath. He then tore loose the hard drive, letting the bisected laptop crunch to the floor, and just with his index fingers and thumbs, snapped the hard drive cleanly in half.

"W-what the fuck did you do that for?!" The Deputy Mayor screamed, ready to climb the bench and accost The Man in Black; consequences be damned. "That laptop cost me a thousand bucks you son of a bitch!"

"Please…be at Peace." The Man in Black quietly commanded, and the Deputy Mayor of Philipsburg collapsed into his chair. A thin fog crept into the room, sifting up from under the doors and down from the vents above, filling the entire population of the room with dread from tip to toe. The Deputy Mayor's mouth went from frothed with rage to bone dry in an instant and he immediately wished he'd kept his big yap shut. The Man's choice of words too stunned the Chamber, but not all were as easily swayed.

"Be at peace?!" The Philipsburg Mayor came to his subordinate's defense. "You just destroyed his laptop, he probably had his entire life saved on it."

"And that…is supposed to…upset me?" The Man in Black turned to the Mayor, who then felt the tip of a phantom, icy pick quivering just between his eyes; millimeters from jamming forward to lobotomize him. "It seems you all are forgetting the end goal here, the 'big picture' as you would call it. As I have promised, when all is said and done, that laptop will be considered a mere trinket compared to the wonders of The Red Star of The Solar Federation!" The Man's gaze swept the bench. "Remember this well. ALL, of you, are expendable. There are three thousand people in Philipsburg, a thousand more in Chester Hill, and one thousand, five hundred in Osceola Mills; and that is just what is contained by the city limits. All of them are plenty willing to crawl over a pile of dead and useless mayors, clerks, councilors and the broken glass of their own towns, to have a seat at _THIS_ bench." The Man placed his hand on the bench itself, sending a rumble down it that rattled all the glasses, pens and papers upon it. "Additionally, yes I have provided you with the finest encryption and cyber security Medical Mechanica has to offer. But it is not to be relied on as a catch-all, or as an excuse for reckless behavior, or laziness. Even a mountain can be brought low by trickles of water, the freezing of ice, the crush of snow and the wearing of time. I would prefer the encryption and security never be needed at all. So when I say 'there are to be no electronic communications involving this revolution', that means absolutely no communications, at all. Keep in mind this is an order, and not a suggestion. Am I being abundantly clear on this issue?"

The Man in Black had not once raised his voice during the entirety of his speech. He did not scream, shout, bellow or gnash his teeth in rage. He had maintained the same consistent volume and pace. A slight change in his tone, undetectable if you were passing through, however…A subtle tone adjustment had the Clerks, Council, Mayors, Officers and Chiefs squirming and quivering in their chairs. All the while the sifting fog had tip-toed behind their eyes, making shadows on their mind's inner wall where the light shone in, distracting them from mounting any sort of indignant rebellion. The Man in Black did not once raise his voice simply because he did not need to.

"With that said, you must understand there cannot be any traces, any scrap of incriminating evidence that can be traced to any of you. This is a ship that cannot leak so much as a drop of water. Deputy Mayor, your first step to correct your mistakes is to delete your...Google Docs account, permanently. Everyone here will use only hand-written communication from now on, and those communications are to be immediately destroyed by fire after they have been read and committed to memory."

"So what then?" The Liaison from the State Police was putting up the best fight. "Are we supposed to pass messages in the park, like spys in the Cold War?" He asked with a dismissive scoff. The Man in Black merely cocked his head to the side, seeming to stare straight through the State Trooper, and simply answered:

"If you really believe yourself capable of such a mundane task Officer, I would certainly advocate that you try. Now, before we are sidetracked any further, let us resume your reports. Yours will not be necessary." He silenced the Liaison before he could work a word in edgewise. "I have already consulted with Patrolman Kauffman. He assures me your department is secure, and that all officers are prepared to Do What They Must. Is that correct, yea or nay?"

"…Yes." The Liaison snarled, mentally throwing chairs and tables across the room.

"Sheriff, and Chiefs of Osceola Mills and Philipsburg, I ask the same of you. How stands your departments?" The Man in Black ignored him and moved on.

"I speak for the three domestic law enforcement departments in saying…" The Sheriff looked left and right at his contemporaries. "That our boys will do what they're told."

"Mazel-tov. And last, but certainly not least…" The Man came to the two Fire Chiefs.

"Don't worry about us." The Fire Chief of Philipsburg answered with a small half-smile. "Our main worry is just putting out fires no matter how they get started, and rescuing the occasional cat from a tree. Unless fuel trucks start exploding again, you won't hear anything from us; we'll stay out of your way."

"I am pleased to hear it." The Man smiled and checked his pocketwatch. "That is all we have for time, I'm afraid. You may collect your phones on the way out. Keep in mind your tasks, I will update you personally as events and changes warrant. Officers, please stay for a moment."

. . .

"See yah later Fred." The Philipsburg Fire Chief said to the Osceola Mills Chief as they exited City Hall's back door. The Man in Black forbade everyone leaving the building at the same time, and all through the same door as well. It was a strange order, but they obeyed nonetheless.

"Take care Howard." Fred got into his truck and headed south for his town. Fire Chief Howard weebled and wobbled about immediately heading home too, but instead crossed the street into the American Legion Post. Inside, he bee-lined for the bar.

"Hey there Howard." The bartender recognized him, soaked with rain as he was. "What're you doing here, a little early for you ain't it? Rough day or something?"

"You have no idea." Fire Chief H.G. Hughes said, catching his reflection in the mirror behind the bar. "Quick, gimme a beer before I lose my mind."

. . .

First was a dump truck filled to overflowing with steel scrap, some gathered from The Boneyard, and some from the scrapyard in town itself. Second was another dump truck load, but of coal dug from along the Carson's runway. A few pallets worth of cheap foam-board followed, then a few more pallets stacked with bags of play sand. A benchtop hot wire foam cutter had been built and installed, using a single-pole dimmer switch and a 25-volt, 2-amp transformer as the main controls, and a sacrificial electric guitar string for the cutting wire. Things got a little more complicated after that.

Between the two of them, Naota and Haruko had been tasked to fabricate, through a simplified air-set sand casting process, a mere 8,000 recycled scrap steel knuckles…excuse me, _novelty decorative paperweights._ After the materials were acquired, they fashioned a coal fired smelting furnace. It was suspended by a three inch thick crossbar that rested on a dual sided frame. The furnace could be latched into place while the metal was smelting, and then unlocked as needed. The furnace body was a clothes washer drum salvaged too from The Boneyard, and lined with inflammable insulation to keep it from melting, and the heat focused internally. Mike swore up and down he was 'pretty sure' the insulation wasn't asbestos, but they should 'wear a respirator around it all the same.' An air compressor hose connection was added at the bottom of the furnace to force enough air into the burning coal to reach their required minimum of 2,000 degrees Fahrenheit. A propane tank was hooked up in a similar fashion for starting the coal and adding a boost of heat. Nestled above the coal was the graphite crucible, ordered from that 'fine online flea-market called E-Bay', and a cap to keep everything covered and heat where it belonged, went on top.

Before they fired up, they made 8,000 identical cutouts of the basic steel knuck…whoops, there I go again, steel _novelty decorative paperweights_ , out of the foam. The hot wire cutter served for this purpose, and a heated metal plug was used to melt out the four finger holes. Two runners, one foot long and one on either side, were left on each side of the _novelty decorative paperweights_. (Did I get it this time?) When the foam form was buried in a metal tub filled with play sand, these runners just poked above the sand to act as pour guides for molten steel.

With the cutouts made and five at a time buried in sand, Haruko shoveled a load of coal into the furnace and Naota lit the propane burner. Once the coal caught, another shovelful was added and the compressed air turned on. With the crucible beginning to glow red, steel scrap chopped into manageable bits was dropped in. After ten minutes of standing around and shooting the breeze, the steel was ready to pour. The furnace could slide laterally on its crossbar as well, so a quick pour on one foam runner was followed by another quick pour on the other. Haruko positioned each box and gave Naota commands to pour, less, more, left or right. The first few attempts resulted in several angry mis-communications, and the lighting of Haruko's green shop coat on fire. After spraying both of them with the hose, her for fire, him for laughing, Johnny warned then he'd see both of them digging their next batch of coal _without_ access to the G &R excavator, if they didn't get along. Both quietly ate their serving of Humble Pie and carried on.

Once the cast _novelty decorative paperweights_ had cooled a few minutes, they were dug out with long tongs and quenched in a bucket of used motor oil to cool and harden them. The extra runners were cut off with a power grinder and thrown back into the scrap pile. After another grinder rounded off the larger edges, and the finger holes smoothed by running a bit through them with a drill press, it was off to the sandblaster. Rig's description on the drawings and his instructions said a mirror polished finish was not required, as a 'rough industrial look is desired' and the non-polished surface offered a 'non-slip, gritty and easy to hold feel'.

It took them close to a week from start to finish. The two didn't say much to the other, busied on their assigned project at hand. When she was given a purpose, Naota found Haruko was perfectly capable of intense focus, concentration on tedious tasks and minute attention to detail; especially during the pouring process. Haruko didn't say anything, but for his skull being empty, Naota had a brain stashed on his person _somewhere_ , having designed, drafted and presented his furnace design to Johnny and Mike for approval in just two hours. He'd also done some of the trickier welding in the harder to reach spots; and only gave himself minor Welder's Flash once. He'd also run the excavator to dig the coal and drove the dump trucks to haul it, and the scrap steel. If she'd been willing to admit it, Naota had come leaps and bounds from the boy she'd left in a shell-shocked Mabase four years prior. As a matter of course, not so much as a word of this did they mention to each other.

. . .

Clyde pulled into the dirt patch next to his trailer, rain pounding down yet again on his car's roof. The start of this August was proving to be a soggy one. As he shuttled groceries from his car to his trailer, a FedEX truck pulled up.

"Delivery for a…Jack Smith?" The driver checked his manifest, holding a box labeled "Live Plants: Handle with care!" and slapped with a bio-hazard sticker for good measure.

"That's me." Clyde smiled and signed for the box. "Thanks for getting it here so fast, I've been waiting a long, long time to have this one…"

"Hey, it ain't my job to judge or ask questions…" The FedEX driver turned to his truck. "But with that bio-hazard sticker, I'd be real careful with…well, whatever that is."

"Ohhhh, don't you worry. I will. I'm gonna take reaaalll good care of it." Clyde assured the driver. As the truck trundled away, he clutched the box tightly to his chest, peering through one of the ventilation holes at the leafy terror inside. "We're gonna have so much fun, you and I." He began walking up his front steps, anxious to get his first full-on look at his newest addition. Halfway up, the deepest animal instinct section of his brain twitched. He stopped and turned 'round, scanning with suspicious eyes. With the cloud cover and grey rain, he couldn't see anything to justify his unease. Dismissing the feeling, he entered his trailer, drawing the shades and bolting the door.

. . .

Clyde was right to be listening to the deep instinct section of his brain. Across the way, draped in an Alpenflage pattern poncho and concealed by the arms of a weeping willow, sat astride a black and orange Yamaha, a note-taking, mental picture snapping and tobacco chomping figure. Who could this mysterious figure be, you ask? SURPRISE! T'was me all along!

'August 9th, 1353 hours. Water Street Mobile Homes, #6. Clyde Kauffman receives FedEX box, labeled as bio-hazard. Signs and accepts under pseudonym." I jotted down into my notebook. I'd been trying to gauge Clyde, to see if he were soft enough of a target to pull Naota and Haruko out of the shop. When I made my daily check-in, they were making excellent progress, and a good team too. Believe that or not, if you want. The tension between the two was thick enough to need a plasma cutter to hack through it, but they hadn't beaten each other's brains in with hammers. So they had that goin' for 'em. Which is nice. Well, now that I think 'bout it, Naota didn't have a brain to beat in…perhaps 'caved each other's skulls in' would've been a better choice of words? Anyway, you're lettin' me get off track. Focus, huh?

I hadn't seen any 'minions', or whatever yah'd call 'em, of Clyde's hangin' around. Then again, it had been a week since the first poison attack. The blood tests had come back with traces of what's called Suicide Tree; I forget the proper Latin name. The poison blocks calcium ion channels to the heart, causing a disruption of a heart's beating. A messed up heartbeat, plus working on a natural gas rig, can overwork the heart and also lead to a drop in blood pressure; which can make you pass out, at best. Usually Suicide Tree will just straight up kill you, so the drill crew was immensely lucky. They had been instructed to buy lottery tickets as soon as they were discharged from the hospital.

So I made my call. I figured it was probably just Clyde and a few miscreants his brother Carl had scraped off some sidewalk to do dirty work. Naota and Haruko could handle Clyde no problem. I mean, it's not like he could chase them farther than ten feet. With my mind made up, I headed for home, wishing it would stop raining for _just five minutes_. Riding a dirt bike in a downpour is no spring picnic.

. . .

All the while, as events swirled around him, Canti relentlessly continued his campaign against the Scorpion Assault Bot. For nine hours a day, five days a week, he would accept the hard-line cord from Josh and plug in via a jack at the back bottom-right of his head. The other end snaked across the Scorpion to its central computer. It had been exposed after an acetylene torch assisted vivisection and the metal armor peeled back to access the hardened system below.

Medical Mechanica had done wonders with guarding their secrets. Canti still could not break the encryption surrounding the Scorpion's computer; the singular component that dictated the actions of everything from claws to tail. Canti was no quantum computer, but still capable of processing millions of data points and calculations at a tremendous pace. The sheer number of integers in the hashing algorithm's first number meant that he had not even guessed a single one correctly. But, there was something on Canti's side that Medical Mechanica could never have accounted for.

Being a host to Atomsk, the so-called 'Pirate King', presents the possibility of… _strange_ , happenings. Before Atomsk had used him to escape Medical Mechanica, and then was drawn through the N.O. channel created by Haruko, Canti had been another Medical Technician, Type-B Unit. The lines of code, the 1's and 0's within him that directed his every action, never deviating from the set of tracks before him, were all Medical Mechanica's. But once Atomsk had taken him up as a host, _something,_ buried deep within those 1's and 0's… _woke up._

A Little Voice we would call it. An itch at the back of his brain, if Canti had a brain as we think of it, to scratch. The Something worked its way into Canti's system, looking over his coding, stored memories, what made him, him. It began to make small tweaks and changes, updating and modifying on the fly. It prodded Canti into action, answering Naota's calls for reinforcement, activating and operating his combat mode, extending a helping hand to a waterlogged Lieutenant Kitsurubami even though she had him in her rifle's sights only moments before. The Something had even survived Canti's merging with the Terminal Core, rebooting his entire system from its own memory as Naota, Kamon, Gaku, Masashi and Ninamori dug him from the rubble. Now, The Something was speaking to him directly.

"What are you doing?"

"I…I am in the process of unlocking this encrypted operating system. Who are you?"

"I am The Voice in Your Head."

"You have been here since Atomsk took up residence within me. Are you a part of him?"

"I cannot say." The Something answered. It continued to observe Canti's efforts against the Scorpion. "Are you making any progress?"

"I am attempting to guess the first integer of its encryption key."

"Have you gotten close?"

"I do not know."

"How many integers are in the key?"

"I do not know. I believe Medical Mechanica uses two-hundred-fifty-six-bit encryption for their assault units."

"I see." The Something again let Canti work, but could not keep its peace for long. "What methods have you not tried?"

"…What do you mean?" Canti began a new round of calculations as his latest attempt failed.

"I mean, have you tried anything besides your best guesses at integers?"

"…I have not." Canti admitted. It had been weeks worth of fruitless work, but he was increasingly sure he was closing in on that elusive first integer.

"You are aware that with two-hundred-fifty-six-bit encryption, and numbers from zero to nine, there are one-point-zero-one-one-eight-zero-four-five-six-seven, E plus twenty four, permutations of the key?"

"Yes. I am aware."

"Very well." The Something left Canti to his own devices once again. As Canti worked, he looked back through his memories for any other options that might help.

"There is something I have not tried." Canti realized, only recalling it after The Something had mentioned other methods.

"And?"

"Acoustics, through low-band cryptanalysis."

"…That is a potential solution." The Something agreed. Canti climbed atop the Scorpion, placing his head against the Scorpion's computer. It was lunchtime so everyone had left, and the rain had conveniently ceased for the time being. The shop was morgue-silent, so Canti had the perfect sound capture to work with.

He'd leaned of Key Extraction via Low-Bandwidth Cryptanalysis while reading with Josh a Grey Hat hacker forum. Computers emit high-pitched noises during operation, through the vibration of some of their electronic components. During its attempts to decrypt data, and defend against Canti's attacks, the CPU would become active. This generated a baseline sound to compare other sounds against. Then, after further detection, Canti could tell the difference between a defense frequency and a decryption frequency.

Designed as a Medical Technician, Canti could generate, for diagnostic purposes, and hear an extreme range of sounds. He could listen for heart palpitations or murmurs, and hear a patient's blood flowing through their veins. He could also generate and detect increasingly higher pitched sounds to test a patient's hearing. So listening for the Scorpion's CPU was like listening to any patient talk. What he was really listening to were the vibrations of the capacitors and coils of the CPU's voltage regulation unit as it worked to maintain a constant voltage. Even though Medical Mechanica probably wasn't sending it any information, the Scorpion was still trying to broadcast and then waited to receive updates and new packets of information. Canti found that attacking the Scorpion would produce a defense, then a signal would be sent out, then it would wait for a response; as if asking how it should proceed.

After singling out the decryption frequency, Canti crafted a cipher text that would make the CPU's sound emitted dependent on the value of the first bit of the encryption key. Listening to the CPU as it defended against his attack and tried to decrypt his cipher text, he could get a positive or negative output, depending on the kilohertz of the vibrating CPU. He'd assigned zero as negative and one as positive, so a lower kilohertz displayed as zero and higher as one. This pattern would be repeated from zero to nine to determine the integer's value.

As he listened, it occurred to Canti that Medical Mechanica did not adequately soundproof their fighting robot's controlling computers, as this method was proving far too easy. Then again, they had most likely assumed no one could ever subdue one intact, crack its shell and then think to listen to it literally tick. Failure of foresight, or Hubris, Canti could not decide; perhaps a little of both. He did though, realize his own head could use some touching up. Maybe he could weld a helmet or replacement shell of sorts? It would help mitigate Haruko ever hitting him with a guitar ever again. There were certainly plenty of tools at his disposal…

"Administrator Access Granted." The Scorpion's computer informed him, as the last integer of the encryption key fell into place. Reading a language the same as his own, Canti had complete and total control. Of everything. From stinger to claw to teeth, the Scorpion was under his direction.

"An interesting solution." The Something praised; Canti _supposed_ it sounded like praise. "I would like to take a look, if I may." The Something flowed through the inline cable, burrowing into the innards of the Scorpion. "Can you apply more power to it? It should be able to start."

"Yes. How much do you think it will require?" Canti climbed down from and walked to the central circuit breaker. Arm thick cables trailing from various ports on the Scorpion had been spliced into the box.

"Fifty percent should suffice."

"Yes, its core is still sound." Canti agreed, making the necessary adjustments. "Start up attempt in three…two…one." _CLUNK._ Canti dropped the breaker lever and gave the Scorpion an influx of electricity, jump starting its central core. The surge, and drain, dimmed the lights and even shook a little dust from the ceiling. Creaking, moaning and groaning as scraping, unlubricated metal on metal ground…the Scorpion staggered to standing.

Canti stood motionless, observing the Scorpion for the slightest hint of aggression. Since he was still attached and still in Administrative Mode, he held the Scorpion in the palm of his hand. It was also no longer broadcasting signals, merely waiting for orders. Satisfied with the initial startup, Canti powered it down, then shot off its external power. He could wait for everyone to return from lunch to tell them the news. In the meantime, Canti looked for some steel plate to better cover the back of his head. He also re-asked a question that had been itching at him madly.

"What exactly are you?" He asked The Something. "You did not give me a concise answer earlier."

"I am You. Well, a part of you, in a way." It was a less technical, more roundabout answer. Very strange, Canti thought, but it would do for now. A little voice in his head. It must come with the territory of having been a robot possessed by Atomsk himself. But that was a discussion with himself, Canti decided, best left for another day.

. . .

"Okay, my turn."

"Hang on…almost ready…'kay. I'm ready. Bring it."

"Train." Naota started them off.

"Tracks."

"Deer."

"Antlers."

"Jack-a-lope."

"Mystical."

"Fantasy."

"Novel."

"Idea."

"Revolutionary."

"Fighter."

"Prize."

"First."

"Base."

"Support."

"Air."

"Travel."

"Agency."

"Secret."

"Garden."

"Hanging."

"Scaffolding."

"Construction."

"Season."

"Summer."

"Breeze."

"Tropical."

"Paradise."

"Island."

"Treasure."

"Chest."

"Boobs!"

"Snnrkt! What?!"

"Ah-ha-haha-ha! You laughed!" Haruko grabbed his shoulder and shook him back and forth on his section of the truck's bench seat. "You laughed, you laughed! That means I win!"

"No it doesn't, your word doesn't match right." Naota elbowed her arms away. "Chest-boobs…boobs-chest? They are related, but don't flow right."

"Pfffftttt… _whatever._ Who died and left you their English degree?" It was three-twenty-six on the afternoon of August 11th; a Thursday. He and Haruko were kitty-corner across the Water Street Trailer Park's office parking lot, and had a perfect view of Number 6; residence of Clyde Kauffman. Rig had approached them the day before, asking if they were interested in some more field work. After over a week of forging _novelty decorative paperweights_ the two were feeling stir-crazy and readily accepted. Asking for preliminary information, Rig answered in his usual notebook referencing detail.

"'Kay, here's what's up. A buncha Mister Pike's guys have been getting' real sick, serious stuff too. Some have passed out, some're pukin' their guts out, some're shittin' their guts out, one's even gone to the hospital 'cause his kidneys went on strike. This doesn't include the initial thirty guys the other week. Now, one've Craig's brothers, Clyde, worked for Mister Pike. He got fired too, had been stealing food, eating on the job. The final straw was when he put laxatives in some dude's soup."

"Did the guy make fun of Clyde or something?" Naota had asked. "You did say Clyde's kinda chunky…"

"Nope. It was the poor guy's first day. Clyde jest thought it'd be funny." Rig had said, and Naota had noticed a barely suppressed cord in Rig's neck twitching, coupled with a furious flash of the Carson Sheen across his eyes. But a blink later and both were gone. "ANY-way, he lives down at Water Street trailers, number six. Same deal as before with Craig, but there's ah string."

"A string attached?"

"Just…just be really careful, okay?" Rig warned. "Tommy and I talked about it, and he thinks Clyde has some outside help. Help that's not a member of their local Bible study class, know what I mean? So, just be on your guard and, can't b'lieve I'm sayin' this…but make sure Haruko has her guitar handy." So with that information in mind, Naota and Haruko mounted their trusty steed, the old Ford toolbox truck, and set out to shadow Clyde. Rig said in the meantime he was going to be working with Johnny, Josh and Mike to restore the resurrected Scorpion to fighting strength. Canti had finally cracked its code and was beginning to work on the Industrial Heavy-Hitter as well. The plan was to, somehow, they hadn't worked out any specifics, to use them in clearing out the Medical Mechanica Marines from Roman's Mine. But that was putting the cart before the horse, as Johnny had said, and they needed to focus first on getting the robots able to stand without being tethered to G&R's circuit breaker.

As Rig had promised, Clyde Kauffman was an easy man to find. He was younger than Craig at eighteen years old, but was a more prominent presence. Clocking in at close to four hundred pounds and a hair taller than Craig, Clyde was a hulking figure. Everything on him seemed cartoonishly enlarged, a caricature of himself. Short, gnarled tight blond curls capped a bear-skull head, a prominent brow and narrow, beady eyes. A heaving, ponderous body immediately followed, (no room had been left to accommodate a neck) swaddled in oversized sweatshirts and basketball shorts; no matter the weather. Finally, a pair of untied Vans skateboard shoes covered his feet, feet that joined his calves at a ninety degree angle with no ankles to make the transition. This anatomical arrangement taught Naota a new word: cankles. Naota also suspected the reason Clyde's shoelaces were tucked into his shoes was because he couldn't bend over to reach down and tie them.

While Craig had been a man about town, Clyde had spent most of his time thus far confined to his trailer. He had only emerged to accept packages from FedEX or UPS, and according to Haruko's higher-sensitive hearing, accepted them under pseudonyms.

"Fine, fine, you can have that round." Naota's thoughts came back to the present, and the word-association game he and Haruko were playing to pass the time. He allowed her that round so she would stop harassing him about it. "Oh, almost three thirty. We'd better check in with Rig." He dialed for Rig, drumming his fingers on the wheel while Haruko aimlessly picked at the bass portion of her guitar.

"Crr-chh…Y'ah! This'shh Rig Carson Enterpri-shehsh, we're currently on…Crr-unnchh!...sh-nack break, but if yah leaf ah message…" Rig answered, his mouth full of what sounded to be a crisp apple. "Ah'm kiddin', what's up?"

"Not much, just checking in."

"And?" There were several more chomping noises. "How'sh that go-win?"

"Slowly. Clyde hasn't gone anywhere today. He's just hung around." He reported, then there was a small explosion in his ear; a sharp _KAH-THOOOM!_ "What the hell was that?!"

"Heh? Oh! That. Uhm, right. Damn, ah, bulldozer backfired. Tommy and I are out on a job with the boom truck. We're lifting up this bulldozer to work on it, can't get this junk heap started." Rig explained, albeit sounding rather hesitant about it. "Soooo…yeah." _KAH-THOOOOM!_

"That doesn't sound like any bulldozer I've heard. Are you okay?"

"Look man, we're kinda busy, I, I uh, I gotta go. Call back in an hour…" Click.

"Well!" Naota snapped his phone shut. Rig's occasional eccentricities kept no consistent time.

"What?" He wasn't sure how much Haruko had heard, but probably most of the conversation.

"Just…well! He hung up on me."

"Mmm-hmm." Haruko sagely nodded. "Bulldozer backfiring, huh?"

"That's what he said."

"Mmm- _hmm…_ " She nodded again. "From here, it sounded like…nah."

"Like…what?"

"Gunfire."

"You think so? I dunno, that doesn't seem right…" _Bvvvvv…Bvvvvv…Bvvvvv…_ His phone began buzzing. "Hey, look who it is." He held up the phone so she could see Rig's name and number.

"Huh, what-ah yah know? How's that for a coincidence?"

"Yeah Rig, what's up?" Naota answered.

"Naota, be very careful with your answer." A different Rig than thirty seconds before was on the other end. This one was resolutely serious. "Has Clyde, at any given time since nine this morning, left his trailer?"

"Besides getting the mail and a box from UPS? No." Naota sensed something had gone horrendously tragic; there was a hint of panic in Rig's voice. "Why, what's happened?"

"Five of Mister Pike's guys just were airlifted to the hospital with kidney failure. Four of Mister Solomon's are going in and out of cardiac arrest. One of Mister Chartier's is having a psychotic episode and is convinced a pair of dragons are eating his legs. Seven of Mister Welshman's are having seizures. And…goddamn it…"

"What?! WHAT?!"

"Goddamn it...ten of Mister Voyze's guys are dead! I, I don't know what happened. The word is their throats got all inflamed, then swelled shut. That's all I know…yeah! Be right there!" He yelled to someone on his end. "Listen, DO NOT let Clyde out of your sight. Do not come back to the shop, do not go home, you are his new shadows until directed otherwise. Understood?"

"Yeah, we can do that…I guess…" Naota looked over at Haruko. She seemed just as perplexed as he was. "Is there anything else we can do?"

"I'm sorry, I, ah…no, that's the, that's the best you can do for now. I…fuck me man, I'm so sorry, I gotta go."

. . .

* * *

*Yah know, for a show that was based on guitars, basses and a kick-ass soundtrack, I have been noticing a dissapointingly low number of songs here. Something that needs remedied double-quick I think.

Lack of tunes aside, we have made first contact with Clyde Kauffman, junior brother to Craig. I'm not sure what to make of him yet, it's still very early to call. But with a habit of poisoning people and shady online ordering of bio-hazard plants, it's not looking good for him.

Also, are there no lows those dastardly politicians won't scrape to? It's election season here in the U.S. of A, and I think my contempt for the whole affair bled through a little. Then again, a group of people working with a Man in Black are of the worst kind, elected official or otherwise.

I have not had a chance to watch 'Ghost in the Shell', but am aware of its premise, and I find the concept and philosophical debate of the existence of a 'Ghost in the Shell' fascinating. Possession by a being such as Atomsk, unknown as he is to us, could certainly lead to some side-effects. This was a thought I had while wondering what purpose Canti was to serve in this story, and why I had bothered to bring him along at all. Now I know there is definitely something that will be delved into during later chapters.

Sorry, no Medical Mechanica scene in this one. I was thinking of adding one at the end, same as Chapter Nine. But I thought it would be silly to back-to-back chapters the exact same way, and this stopping point made more sense than trying to shoehorn another section in.

That's all I can think of for now...wait...nope, never mind. Had a thought and it's gone. Thank you again for reading, it was a jolly good time to crank out the latter third of this chapter, then type it, then review and edit, all in the course of a weekend; reminds me of college. I'm going to stop before I get all nostalgic, thank you again so, so much, please let me know how I did! Until (dear God I hope it won't take that long) Christmas!


	11. Chapter 11

Alright, oh yeah, uh-huh...that's right, I did it! A chapter of substance that didn't take two and a half months for my lazy butt to write! And it is substantial indeed, looking to be the longest yet. Within is A LOT that's gonna get thrown at you, but you're a FLCL fan, so I know you can take it; and then some. Resist, fight the urge to flee this chapter's length, Bite Hard into it and don't let go! Now, over The Top, I'll see you on the other side.

* * *

. . .

"Please. Enter, and be at Peace." The doors of The Grand Temple swung open under their own power, ushering The Head inside. As the doors boomed shut, The Head's eyes took in the lavishly ornate outer colonnaded courtyard; lit through skylights above. Lush carpets of reds and gold softened the stone interior, banners of the same colors were draped around columns and strung as streamers. Priests, festooned in flowing robes of purple, went quietly about their duties, padding along on slippered feet. Assistants and Priests-in-training followed a half-step behind, anxiously awaiting any scraps of wisdom their elder may let fall. Through the hush, The Head could hear the whispering of generations, millennia of dedicated study, pious reflection, the sum of tedious research and profound depths of knowledge. The weight and authority of this accumulated intellect permeated the entirety of The Grand Temple, kept jealously secured within the impenetrable store of its walls.

"Greetings, Head Director." A Monk had found him. The lowest of the Priest's official order, Monks were no longer in training. But to remind them of their place, Monks only dressed in a simple robe, cinched at the waist with rope, and wore no pocketwatch. "I trust you bring with you no ill will?" The Monk and The Head grasped each other's offered right forearms; an ancient tradition hearkening back to the dark days when knives were carried in sleeves. The Head also gave a curt bow, looking up to maintain eye contact. A Priest was always to be looked in the eyes as a sign of sincerity and respect, and not even Monks bowed to anyone outside their order.

"Your trust is well placed Older Brother; I am at Peace." The Head gave the correct answer and was allowed to keep his arm.

"I am pleased to hear it." The Monk smiled and gestured with a grand sweep of his arm. He pointed deeper into the Temple's heart. "Our Father Brown is expecting you. Let's not keep him needlessly waiting."

"Show me the way, if you please." The Head requested, as was polite and expected, even though he had made the same walk countless times. He followed the Monk into a series of hypostyle halls, each filled with pieces of art, works of sciences and engineering, the strange artifacts wrought of alchemy and chemistry, and collected wonders from far-off planets under The Temple's vigilant care. Libraries, workshops and laboratories followed. Cases of print volumes stretched from floor to ceiling, filling the air with the scent of aging paper. Below them, larger archives of digitized books completed the collection. And finally, a rotating blast door that towered to the ceiling. It was impossible to tell its weight or internal workings from here, and The Head would take that information to the grave; after all, Medical Mechanica had built that door, and many like it.

"A moment, Head Director." The Monk turned to a security panel next to the door and laid his face against it. His eyes were now under the scrutiny of a retinal scanner. He also placed his palms onto a set of scanners that began reading the prints on his palms and fingers, but also the map of blood vessels underneath. While finger and palm prints had been replicated with many a clever prosthesis, blood vessel maps had been, so far, impossible to replicate. Finally, an oratory authentication was prompted. The computer listened for tone, inflection, pace, volume and pitch. Hurried, quick, trembling or even loud speech indicated an attempt at forcing a Priest to unlock the door against his will. A clear, calm, and enunciated response was the only one that would suffice.

"I am a Keeper of Order, a Shield of Security, an Architect of Thought. I am a Student of The Red Star." The Monk answered. The floor rumbled as the bolts drew back and the door rotated open to an antechamber. The Head and Monk stepped inside, then waited for the door to rotate back into place. As it returned, it revealed a set of stairs, and the fringe edges of The Priest's most treasured and fiercely guarded possessions: their Great Computers.  
A forest of humming machines stretched before him. Bank upon bank of servers, circuits in concert, trillions of bytes of information, countless calculations flowing through fiber optic cables; an endless stream of data all at the speed of light. The Head couldn't see them, but on the other side of the walls were equally immense cooling systems that gulped terawatts of power and millions of gallons of water to keep this trove of information from melting down. But The Head knew the coolant systems were there all the same, Medical Mechanica had built them as well.

An army of technicians swarmed around them as the Monk led The Head though the Computers. Thousands of miles worth of tightly bundled and managed cables were monitored, and parts were replaced at the instant signs of wear emerged. Along the walls, another group managed the lines of code, constantly updating and refining the Great Computer's functioning. The Head knew of other rooms where information that had been brought into the Computers was processed. Camera feeds, microphones, sensors and inputs from other, smaller Temples across the galaxy. In the other rooms this information was reviewed, analyzed, dissected, discussed and debated. Ever more rooms housed inputs for putting information back into the system, to pose questions, run simulations, or issue edicts of guidance to the other Temples, managing bodies, Medical Mechanica, or the people at large; the Templevisions and Temple Papers only two tools of many at their disposal. And The Head knew all of this, and much more, because, as proud implementors of The Will of The Priests, from the terrace outside, to this innermost sanctuary, Medical Mechanica had built it all.

"Director!" Father Brown was waiting for them atop a set of stairs leading into a central set of chambers, surrounded by the Computers. "You are neither early, nor late…" Father Brown referenced his own pocketwatch. Citizens such as a prominent businessman or an official of minor importance, were allowed pocketwatches of bronze case and chain. Operatives, a mysterious and clandestine breed unto their own, carried, well, _strange,_ pocketwatches of their own secretive design in silver cases and upon silver chains. The Head, and other commanding officers of military and civilian walks, carried their pocketwatches in cases of gold with golden chains, symbols of their elite standings. The Priests, lastly but not least, once they had earned them, carried pocketwatches of white, unknown-but-to-them gems that sparkled gleamingly bright, upon a chain of stars that twinkled and shone in even the darkest of night. "But are precisely on time, as always."

"As reliably as the Moons rising and setting, Medical Mechanica, and I, are at your disposal." The Head greeted, extending the same forearm grasp and performing the same bow as before.

"And you will be held to it! Come…" Father Brown opened the door to the first of many rooms. This one was a council chamber, and already populated with other highest-ranking Priests. "There is much to discuss, and we have many questions to ask. My Son…" Father Brown addressed the Monk who had lead The Head to this point. "Await your guest's return here."

"Yes, Father Brown." The Monk closed the door behind Father Brown and The Head. He assumed a post next to the door, closed his eyes and began meditating; witnessed only by the thrumming army of computers, and a hall awash with the Priest's personal Sea of Knowledge.

. . .

If yah asked me, I know you probably weren't gonna, but here's my two-cents anyway, that day was when things really took a dip down the chart. Sure, sure, I've sai things to this effect before, and Haruko's arrival was bad, but that was a typical Rust Belt pothole; that was in July. This was August, and we were taking casualties. Ten men had passed outright, and then one of Mr. Pike's with kidney failure didn't make it. I had known people were going to die from the get-go, there was no avoiding getting around that. I also knew that Overwatch was going to shoulder the brunt of the blame. We were supposed to be on top of this kind of thing. We had brought these workers, and their families too, into a direct line of fire; of course that's compared to the delayed inevitable of a Medical Mechanica takeover. Fight now and maybe die, or do nothing and after living slightly longer, surely die. Pick and choose.

Tommy, George and I had been out in the hinterlands of Mr. Solomon's Mines, working with a delegation of his men and others from the rest of the companies. Most in this group were veterans of the wars in Iraq, Afghanistan, and some even the new fight against ISIS. They, and their fellow veterans from other companies, were to help us, Overwatch, train the other miners and drillers with lesser or no combat experience. Since they were of a fighting background, many had a lot of their own equipment and were dusting things off. That's where I found myself when Naota called in. I don't think he fully bought the whole 'bulldozer backfiring' excuse, but it was the best lie I could come up with on the spot. What I was really worried about was not my lack of bullshitting prowess. Rather, it was a side-effect of Clyde's. That was the second call I got, right after Naota's. That side-effect had flared up in a nasty rash that was really starting to itch, and had unfortunately manifested itself at Mr. Voyze's.

Tommy pulled into the main depot of Mr. Voyze's mine. A mob had already formed and boy were they some kind of pissed.

"Looks like we got here just in time." I recognized the surrounded building as the mess hall. Coal-dusted and jumpsuited miners were working themselves into a frothy-mouthed frenzy and had started howling for blood.

"We may be too late." Tommy predicted. A body was ejected from the crowd, flailing and wind-milling its limbs before crashing back down onto the rocky yard. It was a member of the mess hall's kitchen staff. He was rail-thin with a stained apron, Croc shoes slipping off his feet (lots of food-prep types and chefs wear them) and had blood flowing from a smashed in nose, flanked by two blackened eyes. He cried out after bouncing off the stones, and I could see he was missing at least three teeth.

"The fuck's going on here?!" Now Mr. Voyze himself was drawn to the scene. He burst from his office, stomping through the mud and puddles, white hair plastered to his head in the sifting mist. "Is this a knitting circle or some…what're YOU doing here?!" He accosted his miners first, then spotted the man on the ground. My focus and worry was more on Mr. Voyze's gait. It wasn't right. He was making short strides on his left leg, and holding his left arm tight to his side, pinning his windbreaker in place.

"G-G-George…" I tapped him on the shoulder, trying to avoid a _worse_ scene. This one was ugly as it was. "G-gu-gun…"

"I see it. Tommy, move!" George and Tommy picked up on it and we three took action. Tommy went between the crowd and the cook, George latched onto Mr. Voyze's arm. I, how I drew this straw I don't know, wound up between Mr. Voyze and the cook.

"Voyze, what're you doing?" George was whispering but I was close enough to hear. "It'd better not be what I think it is."

"Lemme go Carson. That fuck-face over there's killed ten of my guys. That's nine widows and seventeen kids with no husband or father. Now get outta my way."

"You know goddamn well that's not happening. Thomas, Jeff, or I are the ones who get to make that call. We are _not_ having this wanna-be Punisher bullshit. You have more influence over these men than we do, you've gotta be the voice of reason here."

"But they caught him putting…"

"I don't care if they caught him pissin' in God's punch-bowl. If you shoot him, we'll never find out who put him up to it…and then MORE people will die."

"…Fuck it. Fine." Mr. Voyze relented, and his hand came out of his coat pocket empty. "Alright, back it up!" He ordered his men. "That's enough from you, back it up!"

"But, Mr. Voyze…"

"Don't you 'But Mr. Voyze' me Miller! I said, back…up."

"Okay Matchstick-Man, spill it." Tommy stood over the cook. He was sitting in a curled ball, shielding his face from potential blows. "What were you doin' you wasn't s'posed to be doin'?"

"N-nothin'…nothin'!" He whimpered, peeking up at Tommy. "I, I…*hic* didn't do anything!"

"Then why in the blazes fuck are we all here?!" Tommy scolded, gesturing at everyone. "It's not because you put too much pepper in their chili. What did you do?!"

"We caught him with these." One of the miners tossed Tommy a mason jar of what looked like cherry tomatoes; at first glance. "He was putting those into the stew on the buffet line."

"Rig, think fast." Tommy lobbed the jar to me. I cracked it open, immediately seeing they weren't tomatoes. They were various shades from green to dark pink, all with a hard pin point on one end, and the socket of where they'd attached to their host on the other. I cut one in half with my knife and held it to my nose, getting just the smallest whiff. As soon as those fumes touched my nostrils, my sinuses caught fire and it took several hard sneezes to clear them out. "Well?"

"It's…ha-ha-ha…HAH-CHOOO! It's, sniff, it's Jack-in-the-Pulpit!"

" _Nothin', huh?!_ " Tommy roared, scaring the cook into rolling sideways. He started to crawl away from everyone, towards the parking lot. "Jack-in-the-Pulpit?! I outta force-feed you the whole jar. Where'd you get it?"

"I don't know! I didn't know it was poison! Please…don't hurt me anymore!"

"C'mon man, don't make me be a jackass…" Tommy sighed, hooking a boot under the cook to flip him over. "This day is already bad enough for you, me, and everyone else. Don't try to make it worse."

"I swear, I swear! I just, found them, like right there! I, I didn't know!" The cook's eyes were darting around, flitting between Tommy, the miners, me, Mr. Voyze, Tommy, George, then the miners again. "You, you believe me, Mister Voyze? Look what the other guys did to me!" There were no words from Mr. Voyze.

"I can't take this anywhere; not right here anyway." Tommy was losing his patience, but with our audience, there wasn't much he could do. The whole scene was terribly surreal, I wasn't sure how something this new to me should be processed. To my let, a seething glare from Mr. Voyze and unease from George. To my front, Tommy's exasperation, and on the ground petrified, paralytic terror. And to my right, a wall of vengeful, _furious_ anger.

"Voyze, I didn't get up this morning to be a Gestapo officer." George said. "What do you wanna do, do you wanna call the cops?"

"…No…" Mr. Voyze made his way over to the cook. "Conwell…you're fired. Immediately. Get your maggot sopping ass away from my mine. If ANY of us catch you, we're gonna put you in a rock crusher feet first." The cook, Conwell, trembled as he stood, a frail leaf in Mr. Voyze's whirlwind.

"S-sir…I, I don't…" Conwell began to stammer some sort of apology.

"Hey! You heard the man!" Someone ordered…holy shit, was that me? "Get the fuck on outta here 'fore we throw you out!" At my outburst, I had to blow off some of the pressure I'd been feeling the whole time, Conwell found his feet. He jumped into his car, dug two holes in the mud and threw up two roostertails in hauling himself out through the front gate.

"Rig!" Tommy barked, not taking his eyes off the fleeing car. "Hop to!"

"I'm on it." I ran to Tommy's truck, let down the tailgate, and dragged the Ought-Too from the tarp we'd hidden it under. I started up and gave chase. If this Conwell was following the Generic Henchman Handbook, he was surely calling Clyde, or was making a beeline right for him. Hopefully, this henchman's screw-up could help us put the kibosh on Clyde's game. I wasn't even really concerned with catching Clyde with a barrel full of Jack-in-the-Pulpit berries, or a bushel of Suicide Tree fruits. I just wanted to make sure people stopped getting hurt.

. . .

"Oh fuck, of fuck yes! Oh FUCK YES! That's right, take it you fuckin' bitch! You love it, don't you, fuckin' slut?! Disgusting, slutty trash!" Clyde grunted, sweat beading across his brow, flushed veins pounding. This was incredible, such a depraved whore, all to himself in her pathetic, lusty abandon. Her flesh reddened as flails snapped and hands slapped, wild screams and moans were muffled by a tightly cinched gag, breasts heaved and passion grew as Clyde readily drank it all in, sucking down every…single…eyeful. The pace quickened, Clyde's breath shortened to gulping rasps, she was just as close as he was…almost! This was it! Almost! Almost!...

 _FIRE UP THAT LOUD! ANOTHER ROUND OF SHOTS!...TURN DOWN FOR WHAT?!_

Clyde's phone rang, killing the mood instantly in a blast of Lil' Jon. Swearing, he paused the video and bookmarked it for later, took off his headphones, and answered.

"This had better be fuckin' important!"

"Oh Christ, oh Christ, they were gonna kill me, I just know it! I'm screwed, so-so-so screwed…"

"Whoa, whoa! Who's this?"

"It…it's me. Conwell."

"Didn't I tell you to never call me?" Clyde slumped in his chair, bringing up his email as the notification alarm chimed. Another subscription notice. Didn't he already pay for the Premium Unlimited membership? Fuckin' Brazzers…

"L-look, I know, but things've kinda, sorta gone sideways, and I need to meet up. Are you home?"

"Like hell you're coming to _my_ house." Clyde thought he'd made it abundantly clear he didn't want anyone remotely involved with Carl, or his…associates, hanging around. "I'll meet you at the McDonalds, fifteen minutes. You're lucky I'm hungry anyway, or I wouldn't bother."

"Okay, okay. I'll be there!" Conwell promised and Clyde killed the call. What a day. He just wanted to get _one_ good afternoon wank in without one of Carl's shit-for-brains friends calling him to hold their hand. And now this…cripes. Well, everything downstairs had been fed, watered and their lights adjusted, so it wasn't like he had anything else to do anyway. Grumbling and cursing Conwell's name, family, car, dog, girlfriend, and even his stupid haircut, Clyde pulled up his shorts, jammed his feet into his shoes and headed for the door. His computer was busy torrenting the latest season of "Oni ChiChi: Un-cut and Uncensored", so he would just leave it to run. Hopefully it would be finished when he got back.

"And it's raining _again…_ could it not, just once?" He whined and locked the trailer door. As he got into his car, his initial anger at Conwell subsided and was replaced with worry. What was Conwell so upset about he'd risk calling? Why did he sound so panicked? Could someone have blown his cover, the operation itself? Did one of Cole's fellow Patrolmen break ranks, was there a mole, a traitor, someone sabotaging their sabotage? Clyde felt the worry now become a panic attack coupled with a yawning pit in his gut as ever worsening scenarios appeared to him. An overwhelming urge to sate his unease with edible comfort manifested. From his well-stocked center console, he extracted a snack cake, tore the wrapper with his teeth and swallowed the cake in two bites. Peace, a bud of warmth as his stomach began processing the cake…and he was okay. For now. Nervous breakdown: averted. He pulled onto the main road and began navigating Philipsburg's many one-way streets.

Everything had been going so well. He thought of the news reports, the hospitalizations, the horrible, weakened states that strong, virile men had been reduced to…and felt his spirits lighten a little. He recalled the state of worry in town as people wondered if the main water supply would be targeted, or the stores or restaurants, and his attitude turned a slighter shade towards sunny. Perhaps he was overreacting, this was nothing. Needless worry on his part. Either way, he wasn't too concerned now that he had calmed down. If it was nothing, he cut Conwell loose and life went on. If it was something, he'd send Conwell packing to the Moshannon Valley Correctional Center, for Cole's amusement; and life would go on. And, as his stomach rumbled and clamored for something more filling than cake, it was actually a real treat for Clyde. Getting to torment someone in person was always better than any video on the internet.

. . .

 _Bvvvvv…Bvvvvv…Bvvvvv…_

"Yyyyy'eelllloo! This's the one, the only, Galaxy-wide renowned Haruko Haruhara! To what do I owe the…"

"Don' be tryin' my patience woman!" A vaguely Rig-like sounding demon commanded through the phone. "Where's Naota?!"

"Here." Naota tucked his phone between his cheek and shoulder. "We're just about to call you, Clyde's on the move; in a ninety-eight Grand Prix. He's in a hurry too."

"Not surprised. Put me on speaker." Rig must have been on the move too. Naota could hear whistling wind and the Ought-Too's growling in the background.

"You're on."

"'Kay you two. Clyde, despite what your first impressions may indicate, is not on his way to volunteer at the Salvation Army. He's most likely meetin' with another guy named Conwell; former cook of Mister Voyze's."

"Former? Meaning…?" Haruko picked up the choice of words.

"Jest fired a few minutes ago. He may be…" There was a screeching of tires, a blaring horn, and someone shouting 'Goddamn hooligan!'

"You okay?"

"Uh-huh…jest lost one of my nine lives. I'm okay. Anyway, Conwell's a real string-bean of a guy, sandy hair, kinda meth-y looking, wearing an apron and Crocs. He'll be real easy to find, got a busted nose and two black eyes. Now, I'll bet a can of Copenhagen he's goin' straight for Clyde. We need their conversation observed and recorded."

"Can do. Anything we need to know going in?" Clyde had pulled off into the McDonald's parking lot. Naota followed, parking across the lot near Sarina's; the same spot where Craig had held stakeout.

"Besides don't get seen or caught? Well…there's two things…"

"What's that?" A dinged and muddy sedan pulled up and the driver ran into the restaurant. He had a balled-up apron in his hand.

"Clyde's known to be ah right cruel bastard…and you're gonna see him eat." Rig gave them his warnings. "Best of luck, call me when it's over."

. . .

Originally, I had planned to meet with Naota and Haruko when Conwell arrived at Clyde's. But when they told me Clyde was on the move, I had an idea. It was something that could get me in serious trouble. Overwatch has rules for a reason, same's any other organization. I was still on shaky ground after my handling of Haruko's arrival, and this would be a blatant no-no. I thought about calling George or Tommy, but there wasn't time. I believed they would understand with the circumstances considered. There had nearly been an extrajudicial lynching, people we were responsible for had been poisoned, and those un-poisoned were getting scared. Already trust in their fellow workers was fracturing. This was, I think, Clyde's main goal: demoralize and split our forces with infighting and witch hunts for traitors and infiltrators in our ranks. Ten killed, now eleven, was eleven too many, and if this wasn't nipped in the bud, many more would follow. Not necessarily by poison though.

For once, I was glad it was raining. Everyone in Water Street Mobile Homes was inside and out of the weather. That meant no prying or even inadvertent eyes were on me as I circled Clyde's trailer. I hid the Ought-Too behind a small shed at the end of his driveway; covering it with my poncho. One, to conceal it. Two, to keep it dry. You don't want to jump ass and crotch first onto a soaked dirt bike. With another once-over, the neighborhood was clear. There were no signs of Clyde, Conwell, their cars, or that famous G&R Ford toolbox truck. Still, this had to be done quickly.

From one of the Ought-Too's toolboxes, I fetched two wide-bladed flat screwdrivers and a rag. The rag was to reduce the amount and size of marks I was about to make. Clyde's trailer door, built of cheap tin sheet, boasted only one lock on the handle. It was obviously not set well in the frame with any precision. In fact, when I grabbed the door handle, I could shift the door an inch left or right in its frame. Perfect.

The first screwdriver was jammed between the door and its frame, the rag between the frame and the screwdriver. With my left hand, I levered the door away from the lock side of the frame, exposing the bolt. With the second screwdriver, I began pushing the bolt back into the door; while still leaning on the first screwdriver. A little more…a little more… _Cr-Crack!_ The lock's bolt popped back and the door swung open. Sure, I could've picked the lock instead of forcing the door, but this method was preferable in the interest of time; if not as sophisticated. Now that I was inside, I closed and latched the door behind me. I assumed I had no more than ten minutes. I'd have to be efficient.

. . .

McDonalds was experiencing unusually slow traffic for late afternoon, so picking Conwell and Clyde out from the tiny crowd was easy. A dividing wall split the seating area, and the man obviously Conwell sat by himself on one side. He had no food, only a small cup of water and a wad of napkins he used to dab at his crooked, swollen nose. Clyde was in line to order. Naota and Haruko secured a booth on the other side of the wall, doing their utmost to avoid the eyes of either subject. Through small, decorative holes cut into the wall, Naota could see Clyde's back. Okay, all was going well. He opened his phone and brought up the audio recording tool. All he would have to do would be press 'Record.'

"I'll be right back." Haruko announced and got up from the table. Assuming she had to use the restroom, they had been in the truck since noon, he only said 'Uh-huh' and kept watching Clyde.

'What the hell's she doing?!' His blood pressure spiked through the roof as Haruko stepped into line at the next register. While Naota's body locked up in disbelieving panic, Haruko read the menu, shifting her hips from side-to-side; most surely humming one of her favorite songs. 'Is she nuts? Okay, stupid question. What, what do I do? What _can_ I do? Dammit, does she have _ANY_ common sense?' And then, when he thought he couldn't get any more worked up, Clyde saw her. After giving her entire form three look-overs, longingly and lecherously (so Naota thought) Clyde began licking his lips.

Annoyance at Haruko's flippant attitude bled into…what was this… _jealousy?_ Whatever it was, it cruelly needled at Naota's patience. He wasn't really jealous for her, it was that disgusting, leering grin that made him want to borrow the wrench Rig had fought the Scorpion with, and use it to smack Clyde full across the face. She wasn't in her Bunny uniform by any means, just a jumpsuit with the top half down and tied at the waist, a sleeveless G &R shirt and hat, with a pair of blacked-out welding goggles on top, and a pair of steel-toes at the bottom. So…not runway fashion. But how Clyde looked at her just made his blood boil. This wasn't Craig's wink of playful flirtation. Clyde was a grunting, snuffling and drooling bear eyeballing a rabbit like it was his next meal. While this "rabbit" was more of a Nittany Lion that could tie Clyde into knots, that didn't serve to make Naota feel any less furious about the whole affair.

Finally Haruko returned with a small bag and two pops. Clyde was still in line. His order must have been much larger than Haruko's, and Naota remembered the second half of Rig's warning.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" He hissed, leaned over the table so she could hear. "Did you not hear Rig tell us to avoid being seen?"  
"Oh, will you, just quit?" She sighed, digging into the bag. "My G&R logos are all covered with grease, and my hat is covered by my goggles. He didn't see the logos, so don't worry."

"But how many other women with pink hair have you seen around here? You kinda stick out. And, didn't you see how he was looking at you?"

"You saw that?" She stopped rummaging in the bag. "Naota…you're…you're not… _jealous_ , of me, are you?" She asked in that husky tone, jittering his spine and reddening his ears.

"…No. It was, just really creepy. He was looking at you like he was going to eat you."

"Hmmm…if you say so…jealousy, so Un-Naota like." She quietly laughed and tossed him two paper-wrapped burgers, set aside two of her own, and slid over one of the pops.

"What's this?" Was she, had she actually done something nice for him? Stranger days and stranger times.

"It's dinner, since we may not get another chance. Here he comes, shut up and eat." She ordered and before eating, he started the phone recording. Clyde sat down with a heavy 'ooof' and clatter of a laden tray.

"Hey, fingers off!" Clyde barked and Naota heard Conwell jump back in his seat.

"S-sorry, I thought, well, that's just…Y'know, a lot of food an' all…" Conwell tried to justify reaching for one of Clyde's burgers.

"Fuck outta here, me buying _you_ food." Clyde said and began working on his food. Through a hole, Naota could see two large fries, two chicken sandwiches, two double-burgers, two ten-piece boxes of nuggets, a small stack of the miniature apple and cherry pies, a large pop, and what looked like a large milkshake; and Clyde was already eating something else besides all that. "Crunch-schmutchhh-growwnmmm…Shko, whatsch the rea-shown for…haa-ommm…yew callin' me?" Clyde asked as he chomped, chewed and inhaled his first burger. "I shee yer face-shh's all fucked up. OM…sh's'pecially yer noshe."

"Yeah, it, uh, it is." Conwell stammered, nervously tapping his now empty cup on the table. "I don't think the break's too bad. It was a light punch, more've a pop really…"

"Here, lemme see…" Clyde said. There was a stomach puckering _CR-ACK!_ And Conwell moaning through tightly gritted teeth. Clyde had set Conwell's broken nose. "There, all better."

"You could've warned me."

"Hey, 'least I don't have to look at that crooked beak of yours. So, what happened?"

"O, okay. So, I did the first jar like you'd told me to, right? But, I think you got something wrong, b-because, well, ten guys got really, like _really_ sick; and this morning there was talk they'd died. But, I was already doing the second jar, just this afternoon, right before I called; truly was!"

"And you got caught?"

"Well, look at me! They beat the tar outta me Clyde! You set my nose, but I'm missing five teeth; I've got a wad of napkins in my mouth right now. See?"

"Uhg, put that mess away, I'm eatin' here." Conwell must have opened his mouth and showed Clyde the empty sockets of two missing molars, a premolar, a canine and an incisor. "Important thing I wanna know ish…ooammm…did you finith the job?"

"C-Clyde, I don't mean to, to change, y'know, change topics, but…you _do_ see me, right? I can't go home like this. My mom, my girl, they'll throw a fit. That and my one eye's kinda blurry too…I think I should see a doctor or something."

"Is that a yes, or a no? Just spare me the whining and say no. God, you are pathetic." Clyde shifted his bulk, creaking the seat, and continued eating.

"Ssssorrry.."

"Oh, don't be fuckin' _sorry_. You have any idea how hard it is, how long it takes, to breed, seed and grow a Jack-in-the-Pulpit that's as deadly as the ones I gave you? Ten times as lethal they were, and you obviously don't know how much fucking work went into them, because you pissed them away by being so damn stupid. Where does Carl find you dumbasses, that can't be trusted to do one simple thing?"

"Look, Clyde, I know I, I know I screwed up…but there's something you outta know, or at least your cop brother." Conwell's voice dropped to a whisper, Naota hoped his phone would pick it up, especially when it cause Clyde to stop eating.

"What…is it?"

"When I got beat up, there were these three guys that showed up. I don't believe they're cops, but they got 'tween me, the other guys, and Mister Voyze, and got 'em to back off me. Maybe something for you to look at, I mean, I dunno, it was just, weird. I mean, I'm glad they showed up an' all. But it was strange…"

"What was?"

"How those three guys acted. They were kinda, like, interrogating me? I say kinda because they went easy, and let me go. But it was weird, they were more like…detectives, instead of just some bystanders."

"What did they look like?" Naota could see Clyde had put his burger down. His attention had been fully captured.

"Welllll…I didn't look too much at all of 'em. There was one I got a real good look at. He was, he was 'bout…thirty, I'd say. Kinda-tall, ish? Had a heavy five o'clock shadow, this neon green shirt…oh! He had this real big wallet chain too!"

"Did you catch a name?"

"Uhmmm…Terry…Tim, Timothy…Terrence…T…T-uhmm…Tom…Tommy!"

"Ee-ack! Hack-hack-hack! Uhgg, hack! WHO?" Clyde had choked on a swig of his pop. "Thirty, about five-ten, five o'clock, wallet chain, neon green shirt, and… _Tommy?_ "

"Uh-huh?"

"The other two. One was an older guy, sixty-ish, white hair, really shiny teeth, glasses?"

"Hmmm…yyyeaaahhh. That's right." This could not be good. Naota didn't consider himself a detective or spy of any high degree. But he'd have to be deaf, dumb and blind to know this could not be good.

"Last one was younger. Sixteen. 'Bout five-ten, wiry build, maybe some fuzz on his face, probably wore really tall boots?"

"Motocross boots by the looks of 'em I'd say, yeah."

"And did all three have really curly hair?"

"Yah know, th-they all did. Really, uh, stuck out in the back, from under their hats. Do, do you know 'em?"

"Sunova bitch…son…of…a…bitch." Naota could just hear Clyde muttering. He double-checked to make sure the phone was still working.

"H-hey Clyde? Not to be a drag, but, either way, my face's still messed up. That 'n', I didn't really sign on for killing people. I mean, I worked with the guys, and they were okay, y'know? I just, I just thought the stuff you gave me was gonna give 'em the runs or something. I didn't want to be killing anybody."

"What're you tryin' to say…something you want, or what? Look, Carl and I hired you to follow directions, get bothered by your conscience."

"I'm really, really, _really_ sorry, but I can't do this anymore. It's, it's, it's too, just too much. I don't get your beef with these guys. I'm sure there's a reason, maybe even a good one, but I'm done. And I can't go to jail or anything, my girl's gonna be starting her senior year of high school and is already a month along, and I wanna do right y'know, and be there and stuff, but, but if I'm in a jail cell…"

"Then why did you even take my offer if you know you've got a kid coming? Are you as dumb as your pull-out game is weak?"

"'Cause you said you'd pay really well, and like I said, I didn' think, well I guess I should've asked some more questions…"

"Yah think?" Clyde heaved a wheezing sigh. "So, again. Is there a point you're trying to get at here besides the fact you've got cold feet on me and are reneging?"

"W-well, I was hoping for, y'know, the, the-uhm, rest of the money. S-seein's I'm unemployed now, 'fore Mister Voyze'd have paid to get my teeth fixed. I don't really have much money to start with, we've been saving for the baby, which's why I agreed to the job, and like I said, I can't go home like this. Oh, why didn't you tell me that stuff was lethal?"

"You never asked. I thought you knew."

"If I'd known, we wouldn't be sitting here. I'm not a killer, well, I guess I…just, I never wanted this. Oh God please help me…"

"Okay, now you're starting to ruin my appetite." Clyde's pop cup clacked down on the table. Through one of the decorative holes, Naota caught a glimpse of Clyde's face. He didn't appear too off his meal, now shoveling handfuls of fries into a wood chipper maw; its lips, wiggling chins and chipmunk cheeks smeared with mustard, ketchup and a greasy fry oil sheen. "You ain't getting so much's a penny from me. I don't pay welchers."

"C'mon, please! I'm beggin' yah Clyde!" Naota couldn't see Conwell, but if he had to guess, he'd say the man was on the verge of crying. "I've got rent, car payments on that P.O.S. that're more than it's worth, I'm two months behind on my credit card…"

"You want it that bad? You're really beggin' me? Okay…" Naota heard Clyde's skeezy chuckling, followed by a series of hiccuping burps. "Okay, then get on the floor and beg for it good 'n' proper."

"W-what?" Naota felt his stomach tighten as Conwell grasped what Clyde demanded of him. He looked across the table to see Haruko didn't appear too pleased either. Her brow was furrowed, and mouth drawn into a tight frown. Although she couldn't see through the wall, she was starting where Clyde's voice was coming from, with a disgusted wrinkle to her nose. "On the floor?"

"Yeah, sure. Why not? I like a good show. Go on, I've got all day. We'll keep at this until you get it right."

"Oooo…kay…" Conwell's seat creaked as he slid off and placed his hands and knees on the tile. "Clyde…could, could you please pay me the rest of the money?"

"OH…puh-leaze! You can do much better than that!" Clyde chortled. "Here, repeat after me: My name is Conwell."

"M-my name is Conwell…"

"Louder, let's everyone hear it! Hey everyone! Conwell's got something to say!" Clyde called on the entire patronage to listen in. "My name is…"

"…My…My name is Conwell."

"And I like to diddle cute, little, nubile high school girls!"

"Oh fuck no, this's too much…"

"Do it for your kid…for your girlfriend. Or maybe I'll just call Cole right now."

"And I like to diddle cute, little, nubile high school girls!"

"They sure do love my itty-bitty needle-dick, yes sir!...Well, go on."

"They sure do love my itty-bitty needle-dick, yes sir!" Now people were visibly uncomfortable. Some were doing their best to ignore the depraved 'Simon Says', some had taken their food outside or left. One had even gotten his phone out and was _filming_ the spectacle. Naota knew getting his blood pressure this high, this often, wasn't good for him, but he raged against himself and everyone else in the building. For his life, he couldn't say a word. But was NO ONE going to say **_anything?!_** Were they just going to pretend this wasn't happening and hope it went away on its own? And Clyde still wasn't done.

"But what I really love most is being Clyde's Butt-Boy!"

"What? Oh come on…"

"Ahem!"

"But what I really love most is being Clyde's Butt-Boy!"

"Oh my goodness Conwell, we're in public!" Clyde giggled in feigned embarrassment. Naota caught another glimpse of his face, and forever regretted it. Clyde looked like some feral, starving beast, normally squinted eyes wide in his excitement. There was a light, a glow to them, but it had none of a Carson's adventure, cleverness, or friendly mystery. This light was merely the reflection of light off black holes, empty tunnels devoid of life and soul; just greedy blackness swallowing brightness. When not talking, his tongue ran continuously over his lips and teeth, breaths coming in a mix of deep growls and nasal sniffs when he jammed a bit more food into his face. Muscles in his cheeks and lips twitched and jumped, trying to hide a gloating smile and contain mouthfuls of food at the same time. His eyes not only kept a watch on Conwell, but darted around to the other customers to make sure they were watching. He _wanted_ everyone to see, to listen to him belittle and humiliate someone obviously at his mercy, making Conwell say whatever sick fantasies popped into his head. Maybe, Naota thought, if he could get one of the fry oil vats, he could pour it boiling hot down Clyde's throat…that _might_ shut him up.

"Clyde is training me to be his pet Butt-Boy, all day, every day."

"Clyde is training me to be his pet Butt-Boy, all day, every day."

"And my favorite part is when Clyde puts…" Clyde ratcheted his game up a notch, but was denied the satisfaction of finishing his next sentence. Someone had finally gotten the manager.

"HEY! What's going on here?!" The manager came stomping from around the counter, and must have recognized Clyde. "KAUFFMAN. Didn't I ban you already?!"

"This's none of your business Rick, so back the fuck out!"

"Like hell I will! This's my restaurant, so it IS my business. Now waddle your cottage cheese ass outta here before I kick it out!" Rick threatened, his baritone voice filling every corner of the restaurant.

"Whoa, hey…hey, whoa. Let's, let's just cooool our jets here Rick." Either Naota's ears had just broken somehow, or Clyde was pulling a full one-eighty in attitude. "I was just, you know. We were having some fun, Conwell and I. It's just a prank, just a prank bro!" Naota risked a look through a hole in the wall. Clyde's face had also flipped. His head was burrowed down into his shoulders, eyes narrowed and dark again, mouth pursed into a fidgeting frown, and oil-speckled lips stuck defiantly out in a hog-like pout.

"I'm giving you one warning. Get your bitch-ass on the move ricky-tick, or I'm gonna have some pranks with you!" Rick gave Clyde a moment's pause to begin complying. "NOW."

"Fuck you, you can't make…OWWW-OWW-OWWW-OWWW!" With Clyde's bleating and the sound of struggling bodies, Naota had to lean around the wall to see. Rick, a short yet powerfully built man that looked like he wrestled bears for fun, had dragged Clyde from his seat, then twisted his right arm behind his back to where his palm almost was on his own shoulder, and was marching him to the door. Rick used Clyde to push the door open, then with a mighty heave, ejected him face-first in an arc over the drive-through lane and into the parking lot.

"And stay out! You wanna cause trouble, start that shit over at Burger King!"

"Cole's gonna hear about this!" Clyde blubbered as he got up to a knee and stopped to gasp for air. "And Carl and Caleb too!"

"Blow it out your ear and see if I care!" Rick took a heavy step towards Clyde, fists raised. Clyde, moving faster than Naota had ever seen or thought possible, scrambled for his car. "What a paper tiger…strong to the weak, weak to the strong…" Rick muttered as he closed the door. "Hey, it's Conwell, right? Are you okay? Let me look at your eye…"

"Naota, time to go." Haruko jostled him from his surreal daze. Did that just really transpire, the sudden turning of the tables? Had Clyde gone from a sneering tyrant to a sniveling coward in the same breath because of a McDonald's manager? How someone that nasty for crudeness' sake could just fold… "Yo! Look alive!"

"Yeah, sorry." He tossed his trash as they left, and turned back to see Rick sitting with a huddled over and shamelessly bawling Conwell. "Do you think we should…I dunno, do, say something?"

"No time, and not our job anyway." They got into the truck and followed Clyde onto the main road. He was headed back into town, passing to the right of the town's guardian: an M4 Sherman tank at the Veteran's Memorial. "Why? You don't actually feel sorry for that guy?"

"I kinda do, kinda don't. Sure, he royally and totally screwed up; but he didn't know or really mean what he was doing. I can only imagine what's going through his head, having a kid must have really messed with what he is and isn't willing to do. Desperate people do desperate things, you know? What really bugs me is that nobody said anything; until Clyde took it way, WAY too far. What does it take to get someone off their ass and say 'enough is enough'? Do they just not care or what?"

. . .

"Y'know, it's funny you mention that." Haruko quietly said, listening to Naota blow off shaky nerves. "Those're the kind of people Medical Mechanica like to see in a planet. Ones that won't stand up for even little things, people that don't say anything."

"You mean, like, passive types? I guess that makes sense. Would make it easier to take over…"

"That's for sure." She was remembering a place that felt like a lifetime ago, and light years removed.

"But still! No one has even the slightest _empathy_ for that Conwell guy, at all?" Hmmm…empathy. That word stirred something in her mind. It was bitter, unpleasant, and terribly sad.

"Naota, be careful with that word." She warned. They had stopped at a light, so he could look over at her.

"Why's that?"

"Because. An excess of empathy is a sin, and a crime. Don't sympathize with people who'll hurt you for money, for sport, or because it gets them off. Some people are only asking you to help them up, so they can get you in their striking range. And, if you're really that desperate for some moral feel-goody, self-congratulation, you deserve every, single, knife you get stuck with."

"W-ow." Naota blinked several times, stunned as he digested her words. "That's really…dark. Really, really dark. Where'd that come from?"

"Nowhere. I'm just pissed off is all." Half of that was true. "It just, it bugs me that you're so quick to feel sorry for that guy, Conwell. He's a stupid schmuck with poor judgement, that did some really stupid shit, that is gonna have a kid, another stupid schmuck with poor judgement that'll do more stupid shit, and have stupid kids of its own. Then, before you know it, your planet will be completely full of Conwell's; full of under-evolved, mouth-breathing morons. And you are gullible enough to feel sorry for, and try to empathize with them, when they're the reason Medical Mechanica is doing so well, because they're counting on planets being full of stupid, mouth-breathing idiots, too fascinated with pointless bullshit to realize their brains have already been Ironed." She finished her miniature rant, a pent up piece of bile she'd been letting fester for years. Immediately she began cursing herself for letting that blurb slip out. Where did it come from, was she losing her edge? Did Clyde's display at the restaurant get to her…no, that wasn't it; she'd seen and been part of much worse. Maybe she'd been hanging around with Natoa too much. There was always the danger of getting too comfortable with someone. Hopefully, he wouldn't read too far into her words.

"Alright, that does it. You're banned from McDonalds too."

"What?! Why's that? And aren't you listening to me?"

"I am listening, but there's not much I can really do about it; right now anyway. And you're banned because their food seems to make you grumpy. Well, grumpier than usual."

"Hey, you started it; with your empty-headed, feels-train bound for Conwell-town."

"Well, that's part of being human, being able to sympathize and understand where someone's coming from. It's how we get along, sometimes. What, you wouldn't have any sympathy for a waylaid, fellow…uh…whatever you are, y'know, person from your home planet?"

"No, not really no." She was lying to both of them. Him because it was just habitual now, herself to feel just a little better. "I haven't felt sorry for anyone in a looonnnnngggg time." That part was true. It made things easier when you stopped caring.

"Damn Haruko…" Naota said as the light changed and he gave her one last, hard look. "What the hell _happened_ to you?"

. . .

We're gonna take a short break from our regularly scheduled programming here on the Fooly-Cooly-Channel for a quick poll! In your opinion, did Clyde Kauffman's trailer look like A: an immaculate, orderly, O.C.D. wet dream…or B: a god-awful, fundament-oozing, dumpster behind that sketchy looking Ole' Country Buffet, disaster? If you chose A, you obviously haven't been payin' 'ttention at all; an' I don't like you, and you won't go far.

Holy Christ on a Cracker, the place was a mess. If that trailer wasn't a cry for help, I can't begin to fathom what is. Pyramids of pop and energy drink cans, mounds of trash bags and empty drink boxes, a moldy and fuming sink filled with dirty dishes, and all the other empty spaces cluttered top to bottom with the most random and useless collection of junk. To my front-right was the kitchen, a biohazard, quarantine zone. Left was a hallway that lead to the bedroom and bathroom, not really what I was looking for. Immediately right was the living room, and it was the most cluttered. In its center was a sagging couch, a TV surrounded by cables and video games, and behind the couch in the corner…a gaming PC battlestation. Target acquired.

By the combined powers of God, Allah, Buddha, Shiva, and even The Flying Spaghetti Monster lending a…noodle?...not only was the computer unlocked, it was actively running. I sat down and brought up Clyde's default browser. He wasn't using TOR; that was going to make this infinitely easier. I dialed Josh's personal number, if he wasn't near his station, his phone was always on him.

"Wazzz apppp?!" He answered in unusually good cheer. "We just got the Scorpion to walk _five whole steps!_ Is that awesome or what?!"

"Coolest thing since canned beer. Hey, I have a device that needs stuck with an Ice Pick; and I need it done five minutes ago."

"Gimme a sec'." Happy Josh shifted to Business Josh and began booting his system. Since we'd gotten a copy of Craig's phone, I'd taken to carrying a portable hard drive with me; just in case yah know? If we could uncover the cops' surveillance network from a phone, who knew what else a Kauffman family electronic device might turn up. I plugged it into the tower and started a copy of everything Clyde had; from Admin files to that Pinball game. Now, before we get too deep into this, you're probably wondering what an Ice Pick is. Sit on down, we'll try to muddle through it together.

Ice Pick (Patent Pending) is an Earth-Overwatch developed tool we use to spy on, and take control of, computers . It was so named because ice picks are often used as stabbing weapons because they're incredibly sharp and leave a small, hard to detect wound. This version stabs computers, acting as a Malware S.T.D. for your computer; just without the rashes, creams or little comb. It can be sent in two ways. One is through a direct attack of sorts, kicking down the door so-to-speak. The second is the way most attacks are done: phishing. Send your target an email that appears to be a trusted source (Amazon, Ebay, Barnes and Noble, Grannies with Trannies dot com, whatever syncs up with your target) loaded with your handy-dandy Ice Pick, and hope they're dumb enough to click on it. That opens the malware file, letting it burrow into the computer and start running programs in the background. Your computer is always running something, even when you're just admiring it longingly and lovingly from across the living room. Ice Pick's first order of business is to shut down your anti-virus tools and block you from anti-virus websites for good measure. We don't want Mr. Mcafee gettin' any wise ideas…

Next, it will start running a keylogger. The idea of a keylogger is to get between an input on the keyboard and it being displayed on the monitor, and make a record of it. Ice Pick uses what's called a kernel driver keylogger, reading the inputs as they pass through all the filters needed to convert a physical keypunch to an electrical signal, down into a computer language signal, figure out where to send that signal, then reverse the process to display the input on your screen. So even if passwords and login information is character protected, those little dots or stars that show up instead of letters and numbers, we can still read everything being typed. Since it is a kernel driver keylogger, it looks just like the rest of your computer, and is thus much harder to detect and get rid of.

Last, it will start taking screenshots. At a minimum, it will do one every ten seconds if the user does anything or not. Ice Pick can also be configured to take screenshots on certain inputs, relying on its keylogger for that information. If you hit the 'Enter' key, screenshot. If you hit the Home Button, screenshot. Click on something with your left mouse button, screenshot. Right click to copy and paste? Screenshot. Tab button, screenshot. Shift, screenshot. Open a new tab in your browser, that's right, you guessed it: Screenshot. Stop and Hammer Time? Screenshot.

One more nice thing, depending on your views of nice I suppose, is that Ice Pick's similar to S.T.D.'s in another way; that it's a gift that keeps on giving. That's right, it's contagious. It can, and has been used to, infect other computers on its immediate network, or any that share an internet connection. Really, all an internet connection is, is just two computers sending and receiving information with each other. Ice Pick can attach itself to a packet and get sent out unknown to either users. These infected computers can be used to create a network of "zombie" computers, called a botnet. The most common use for a botnet is to act as a proxy, shielding your identity from other users. Botnets can also use their combined computers to execute DDOS attacks (Directed Denial of Service), a favorite weapon of those guys in the Guy Fawkes masks. So, that's Ice Pick in my layman's terms, I haven't had a chance to fully research it yet. But hey, not bad for the creators, the guys stationed at Overwatch's Romanian Office. Oh, those Romanians.

"Are you set up?"

"Yessir. Give me firing coordinates."

"Send standard message for a Gmail user to…oh come on…" Clyde must have been checking his email when Conwell called because he'd left that open as well; along with his active torrents. Huh, what's 'Oni Chi-Chi: Uncensored and Uncut?' Add that to the look-up list for later, I guess. "Send message to…goddamn it…to Boner-Slinger69, at Gmail dot com."

"Snnrkktt! Pfffft, what?!" Josh had probably seen worse. "I've seen worse, but that's still funny." See? "Now, before I send this…who does it belong to, and does George or Tommy know?"

"You already know who it belongs to, take a wild guess. The IP address is...twenty-three, one-ninety-three, twenty-two, forty-five."

"A Mister Clyde Ryan Kauffman, Number Six, Water Street Mobile Homes." Josh already had back-tracked the IP address I'd given him, and cross-referenced it with the one associated with Boner-Slinger69 (To this day, I still can't say it with a straight face.) "Actually, if you'll give me a second…" P-pip! The computer's webcam app popped up, with Josh's smug face and cigarette smoke filling its screen. "Hello-Oh shit, you're ACTUALLY there?!"

"How'd you get in?!" I hadn't given him any information besides Clyde's email and IP.

"Used Google's Gmail IP backtracking to find Clyde's email IP, and cross-referenced it with the one you gave me to nail down the location as Water Street. Then I went to Water Street's website, found their internet provider and looked up what server the company uses. Went to the server, drove a truck through the open ports Water Street has left open in their security, took remote access as administrator of the network, and used that to access all devices on the network. Water Street's only using Wi-Fi Protected Access security, which is god-awful, so a dictionary attack guessed their encryption key in about ten seconds. I'm currently looking at seventy-seven different devices, from smartphones to the desktop you're sitting at. So, so, so much porn right now, on most of them anyway. Question though, what the hell are you doing there?!"

"Josh, I ain't got time for this. Send it, or hell, just attach Ice Pick remotely." I had hung up my phone, no point in using it when Josh was right there on the webcam.

"You haven't told George or Tommy, have you?" He wasn't letting that go. "I dunno if I wanna be part of this. I've got enough black marks on my record already; especially after the Two-thousand-and-eight Blackout…"

"That was you?"

"Don't change the subject. Look, if George or Tommy haven't signed off…we can really end up in hot water. I can't just Ice Pick every computer we come across. The more a tool of ours gets used, the better look people can have at it and more they can learn to defend against it."

"Josh, eleven guys are dead because we didn't act fast enough!" I raged, unfairly at Josh. It wasn't his fault, it was his responsibility to make sure he had a commanding officer's authorization. While I technically outrank him, he was in perfect standing to not budge on his insistence George or Tommy signed off on this. "And more will follow unless we get this shut down _now._ I'll…I'll take full responsibility; if anything bad comes of this. But I only have maybe three minutes, at best." I could feel my phone buzzing in my pocket, it had to be Naota. Clyde was gonna be back any second and I still had to put everything perfectly back as it had been, wipe my prints, relock the door and get out of Water Street unseen.

"Ahhhggg…fuck me Rig, I still don't know…"

"Okay, how about this? What if Clyde's been communicating with City Hall, the Mayors, the County Clerk's Office, hell, even the Sheriff and State Patrol? We could use his computer as a springboard to access the rest of their networks."

"We are so gonna be court martialed for this…fuck it. Installing, and also sending through Gmail; just to make sure it takes." Josh looked down to type. "And…bam! You've been hit by, you've been struck by a smooth criminal…with an Ice Pick!" I knew Josh wouldn't be able to resist a chance to access our local government and police networks.

"Thanks a million Josh, I owe you ALL the beers." I put the computer back as I found it, rearranging the chair and used the rag from the door to wipe everything I'd touched.

"Pleasure's all mine. I'll be standing by for Ice Pick's first data packet. In the meantime, you'd better think of something funny, witty AND clever to say to George and Tommy."

"Will do, thanks again. See you at the shop." I said and Josh signed off, closing the webcam and severing his connection with Water Street's network. Now he was waiting for Ice Pick to start sending him screenshots and whatever other information he had told it to look for. I gave one last look around for anything blatantly illegal. No meth bubblin' on the stove, no bombs in the sink, no kilos of coke on the coffee table, and no RPG's or machine guns in the hallway. There was a bag of organic potting soil next to a hallway closet…very strange, but not illegal. I took a mental note of it just the same. If I had more time I'd have looked into it, but at least we'd gotten our foot in our enemy's door. It would have to do.

. . .

Folding down his newspaper, The Man in Black watched Clyde's car speed away. In the back corner booth he had heard the entire conversation between Clyde and Conwell, power trip and all.

'Such a…vile, young man. Feeding on pain like that.' The Man shook his head in disgust. Reaching under his sunglasses, he rubbed tired and frustrated eyes. 'But it's still too early to call, and he has executed orders flawlessly, and to the letter. Oh, what to do, what to do with you Clyde Kauffman?'

"Here's your food sir." The girl brought The Man's tray to his table. "Enjoy!"

"Thank you, I hope I will." The Man looked down at the single item on his tray. The menu called it a "Big Mac", and it came in a cardboard box; of all things. Very odd. Out of curiosity, The Man thought he'd order and try one. After all, Clyde had eaten two himself with great gusto, and it was the first on the menu; so it couldn't be _that_ bad. He opened the little box and picked the burger up, giving it a suspicious examination. Seeing it looked fairly harmless, he brought it to his mouth and bit down. The Man in Black promptly gagged and nearly vomited. He threw the burger and its box away, and left McDonalds. Heading into town and looking for a bar, he resolved to stick to bourbon.

. . .

Clyde stopped just shy of the tool shed at the end of his driveway, stomping the brake pedal to the floor. For a moment, he just sat, fuming and filling with boiling rage. That fuckin', goddamn Rick! That nosy shit-stain couldn't mind his own business, the hell was his deal?! And _SO WHAT_ if he'd been told to leave before? The mouth-breather on burger assembly apparently didn't understand the meaning of 'extra pickles and onions', and pointing that out surely didn't warrant a permanent ban. Okay, he may have raised his voice, a little more than appropriate…said a few, chosen, select words that had reduced the girl running the register to tears…what? Never heard of customer feedback?

Rick was going to get his alright, and everyone else at that McDonalds too! He swore it, cursed it, willed and grudged it, letting a writhing ball of biled up anger grow in his stomach; filling him more than any cake. Rick had humiliated him one time too many. Now it was a matter of how to do it…

In a foul mood, Clyde slammed his car door, jerked open his trailer's door, slammed it closed, and after getting an energy drink from the fridge, slammed it too for good measure. He stomped to his computer, the torrent was finished, so he saved the file and closed the client. He never bothered to seed his torrents; a waste of bandwidth. New email?

"Brazzers dot com…account management, urgent?" He clicked. "…We believe someone tried to illicitly access your account…click here to confirm your identity and account info…well shit, that's not good." He clicked the link and waited for it to load the page, only to get a "Broken Link" error. Huh. That's weird. He'd reset his Brazzers account info, but not before sending a scathing email to their management, berating them for not fixing their shitty automated links. But even before that, he had to provide Cole with an update. While he typed, unbeknownst to him, his computer had been stabbed with now two Ice Picks. With its defenses mortally wounded, it began bleeding a stream of precious information.

. . .

"Jesus, I know Clyde can be a real pain-monger sometimes, but this's ridiculous." Rig said as he listened to the recording from McDonalds. He had met with Naota and Haruko at the Centre Bearings parking lot; one of G&R's suppliers. The store was just down Water Street from the mobile home park, so they would know if Clyde tried to leave again during their meeting. Dusk was upon them now, and the coming dark hid their parking lot rendezvous. "But that pretty much seals it. He's definitely behind the poisonings."

"So what now?" Naota asked as Rig copied the sound file to his own phone to have a duplicate. "Do we go right now and have a sit-down like Craig? We don't really have much in ways of leverage, like Craig's girlfriends, but people _are_ dying…so we can't do nothing."

"But we still don't know how Clyde's getting or making his poisons, getting them to his people, how many of them there are…" Haruko added, reminding everyone she had once upon a time been an officer of the G.S.P.B. Disavowed or not, he investigative training had not diminished. "There's no good in taking him down if there's still other guys out there like Conwell; they'd still be capable of doing damage."

"I'd had the same thought Mizz Haruko, great minds do think alike." Rig agreed. The copy complete, he disconnected and returned Naota's phone. Thinking and chewing at the tobacco plug in his lip, he spat and turned to Naota. "How do you wanna go 'bout this? You've been watching Clyde all this time; y'all might know him better'n I do now."

"Well, he mentioned how he was growing Jack-in-the-Pulpit, and the other ones he's been using are pretty exotic…" Naota thought over their newest batches of information. The bloodwork from that days poisonings had come back, and Rig had all the guilty parties transcribed in his notebook. His list of substances contained:

-Suicide Tree: A now repeat offender.

-Foxglove: Irregular heartbeat, digestive distress, heart failure.

-Poison Hemlock: Stomach pain and vomiting, slow yet steady paralysis of the nervous system; used to kill Socrates.

-Mountain Laurel: Found everywhere in Pennsylvania, causing swelling of the throat, vomiting, cardiac arrest, gastrointestinal hemorrhaging and ulcers.

-Rhododendron: Another Pennsylvanian native. While rarely fatal, it wreaks havoc with nausea, vomiting, difficulty breathing, and occasionally coma.

-Death Cap Mushrooms: The usual diarrhea and vomiting, but also hypotension and tachycardia in early stages. Later stages manifest as jaundice, liver and/or kidney failure, bleeding and/or swelling of the brain, and, of course, cardiac arrest.

-Currently Unknown: Caused dilated pupils, blurred vision, headaches, hallucinations (which explains why several of Monsieur Chartier's workers were convinced they were seeing dragons), delirium and convulsions.

"…So first, I'd say we figure out where he's getting this stuff, then how he gets it where it needs to go, and who those people are, and that'll be more than enough to go on."

"Hell man, it's like someone trained you how to do this." Rig kidded with a Carson Flash across his eyes, but in a blink it was gone. "So y'all gonna come home for tonight, what's the plan?"

"Since we haven't seen Clyde do much during the day, we're gonna stay out and see if he's nocturnal."

"Yep, it's just gonna be the two of us…" Haruko purred from her side of the truck. "Allll alone…allll night."

"Naota and Haruko, out parkin' in the late-late hours, nothin' 'tween 'em c'ept the night!" Rig leaned on the driver's door windowsill, giving them a smug cat-like grin. "Usin' work as an excuse, very clever Nao'. I'll have to use that idea someday…"

"Oh, shut up, both of you. And you!" He glared at Rig. "Don't be encouraging her!"

"Strong with the denial side of the force you are, Master Naota. Yes, yes! Mmmm-hmm-hmm!" Rig stood back from the truck's door before Naota could roll the window up on his head.

"In all seriousness please…"

"In all seriousness, that sounds perfect." Rig agreed, now straddling his Ought-Too and readying to leave. "Same as always though, be careful. If you see or find something really god, lemme know A.S.A.P. Remember, I'm like Schrodinger's cat. I'm both here, and everywhere."

"I'll keep it in mind." Naota promised, and wondered how exactly Rig could do that; be there, and still everywhere. Stranger things…

"Allll-righty then." _K-Klack…KrahhUUHHMMMMmmmm…_ Rig kicked the Ought-Too to life. "See yah tomorrow!" He took off into the evening gloom, turning to use the train tracks that ran from Philipsburg, past Carson property at the foot of the mountain, and to Osceola Mills; Rig's personal backdoor way home. Naota took himself and Haruko back to the trailer park's office, this time using the dumpster to hide most of the truck. An electric blue glow of a computer screen flashed and flickered behind Clyde's shades, he was home alright. So began another round of watching, seeing, and waiting.

. . .

"Rig, if your Uncle finds out, you're dead meat man." Mike underscored the 'no-no' nature of how I'd gotten a copy of everything on Clyde's computer. Regardless of my methods, we were already finding many an interesting file on that external hard drive. First were the collections of toxicology and forensics textbooks. Second were guides on indoor growing of plants, hydroponics, heat lamps, soil rotation, fertilizers; enough to warrant the suspicion of your friendly, neighborhood D.E.A. office. Third were volumes on plant identification, herbology indices, and encyclopedias of deadly plants, and a guide to wild edibles and what to avoid as well. Most telling in my mind were the diagrams and drawings of mining and gaswell water supplies, how the drinking, showers and cleaning systems were all fed, plus designs of HVAC and air circulation systems. All were potential methods for dispersion of particulates. There was also all of the porn. Oh, I didn't mention the porn?

"GAH! God damn!" Josh had kicked himself back from his computer bank, rolling on his chair across the shop floor. "What the actual fuck?!"

"What're you going on about?" Johnny and Mike were still hanging around to help sift through the trove of information I had brought back and Ice Pick was going to send. Johnny got close enough to the screens to look. "GAH! God damn is right!"

"Oh, it can't be…" Mike laughed, but his face too soured. "GAH! God damn doesn't even cover it! Isn't that kind of stuff illegal?!"

"Okay, okay, what's the big deal?" Buncha wimps, let's go on a dive into a /b/ thread together and then we'll talk…

"Rig, I wouldn't do that." Johnny warned.

"Buncha prudes…oh Jesus Harold Fuckin' Christ! What **IS** that?!" I somehow teleported myself to everyone else on the far side of the shop. I don't know how. While we recovered, Tommy, unannounced in his return, walked into the shop. We didn't get a chance to warn him.

"Mike, what have we discussed about personal use of work computers?" Tommy plopped himself down in Josh's seat and started browsing the files displayed. I risked a second look, and saw Tommy was ignoring the violent image we'd flipped over, and was focusing instead on some text files.

"Mike? Something you wanna tell us?" Johnny asked.

"Hey, let's not get off topic…" Mike tried to brush Tommy's question away.

"We can't leave you unsupervised for ten minutes, can we?"

"Christ, I read ONE, not even all of it, but _one_ Monster Musume fan-fic, and everyone's gotta rag on me about it. I just wanted to see what all the fuss's about."

"Josh, pardon the stupid question…" Tommy interrupted the expose of Mike's browsing habits. "But _why_ is there an Ice Pick running on this machine? I don't remember George authorizing one, and I most certainly didn't."

"Uh…well Tommy, there's a good reason for that…" Josh looked wide-eyed at me. "Right, Rig?"

"Rig…something you wanna tell me?"

"I told Josh to run it, and I also made the copy of everything on that external hard drive you're reading from." Tommy seemed in a decent mood. If honesty is truly the best policy, as they always say, I was hoping my ass wouldn't fry too much.

"Do I need to ask whose computer it is I'm looking at?" The screenshots were starting to come in, the keylogger was tracking away and the auto-copier chugged along. Clyde was typing an email to Cole, informing him of Conwell's exposure and how we, us Carsons, had been witnessed by Conwell. While he typed, his inbox filled with messages. TortureTube, Punish-Teens, Pain INC, Dungeons and Masters…you get the idea. "It could be Craig's, at least the inbox makes it looks that way…but the IP is coming from the Water Street Mobile Homes." Tommy checked Ice Pick's display of information about its status and the target it was working. "And with subscriptions to these hydroponic, herbology, and toxicology sites, plus this data from the hard drive…this has to be Clyde Kauffman's. Now what I want to know is, how did you do it?"

"Well…" I was trying to gauge Tommy's temper level, but that is difficult to do. He looked exhausted, and was using the same monotone reserved for ordering parts. "When Conwell left Mister Voyze's, I figured he…"

"Rig. Just, answer the question please. How, did you gain access, to Clyde's computer?"

"…I broke in while he was meeting Conwell. He'd left a torrent running so his computer was unlocked and open. I brought up his email, gave Josh the address, and Josh used that to break into the computer and gain remote access, all at my direction. During this, I also made a copy of everything on his computer, and then ordered Josh to run the Ice Pick."

"I see. And you didn't contact anyone else?"

"No. I did not."

"Mmm…that's a problem." We were secretly reading over Tommy's shoulder, watching in real time Clyde type. Such is the beauty and power of Ice Pick. "And this's a problem too…"

What Clyde was doing is an oft used trick when you don't want to leave a paper or digital trail in your communications. You'll set up an email account, and give the logon information to the other parties you want to read your messages. But, you'll write the messages and save them to the draft folder, never sending them. Then the other parties will log in, read the draft, edit it, resave it and log out. Then you jump back in, read, edit, and jump back out. Rinse and repeat as much as needed, then delete the draft when you're done. Messages are conveyed almost in real-time and there's no record of them ever existing. It's a clever system, provided someone isn't watching over your shoulder. The conversation was going something like this:

*Heard on the radio about the latest. That's 17 more down, plus the first 30; 6 are gone for good. You're doing very well.*

*Thanks. Getting some of Carl's guys, and Caleb's friends too, hired in really helped. Drug runners and speed freaks really do know their stuff.*

*That they do. Keeps me in work haha. Will have to cut some loose to make an example. Make sure the rest stay in their lane. Everything else ok?*

*Right. There may be a problem.*

*There had better fucking not be.*

*It may be nothing. Conwell fired from Voyze's, cover was blown. He is no longer useful.*

*Too bad. I'll send a patrol to pick him up. Plenty of cots in Moshannon Valley for him.*

*That's not all. Something interesting. Conwell said George, Thomas and Jeff Carson were at Voyze's when he got fired.*

*They have done business and welded projects for him. Most likely coincidence. Unless there is more?*

*Said Carsons 'interrogated' him; were acting more like detectives.*

*Noted. They were already close to the top of our list. Right up with all former military and ex-cops.*

*Figured. Can you do something now? I don't need them nosing around my place. And, should we let Him know? I think He would like to know about the Carsons.*

*No. We can handle the Carsons. They are just too nosy for their own good. My advice to you though. Be patient. Behave yourself. Keep your head down. Behave yourself. Do your job. Behave yourself. Don't get kicked out of McDonalds. **AGAIN.** *

*You heard about that?*

*Rick called us to report you. This is your last warning. Pull a stunt like this again and **_I WILL_** make your life Hell. The MIB will be the least of your problems.*

*Yes Cole.*

*Good. I have to go on patrol. See you Sunday.*

*See yah.*

The email draft conversation ended and the draft itself was permanently deleted. Ice Pick had captured it all though, and was still sending updates. Clyde was now checking his Facebook. The air seemed to have been sucked out of the room, curdling our stomachs as it went. It was only a matter of when, not if. We were on borrowed time, now that the Megalomaniac Control-Freak of The Free World knew we were involved. Craig, Clyde, Caleb, Carl, Cody and Chris could all be bad dudes in their own ways, but Cole…but Cole had the backing of the Pennsylvania State Patrol. It wasn't the list we were too worried about, we'd figured they were making one. It was knowing that, at any given time, the State Police and their fleet of MRAP's would be paying us a visit.

"Well…" Tommy slumped in the chair, at a loss for words but determined to try. "I'm still very much not happy Rig, and you're gonna have to 'xplain this to your Uncle when he gets in. But, you may have just saved us."

. . .

Haruko was playing with the radio. Back and forth the needle went across the stations, bursts of sound and music broken by crackling static. Her wanting to change the station wasn't too bothersome. It was that she had been doing it for five whole minutes. And yes, he had been counting.

"Ssshhnnnxxxtttt…Try our newest formula, guaranteed ten pounds or your…ssnnnnrracchcckkkttt…We've got to move these refrigerators, we've got to move these color T.V.'s…reeeennnnuunnn…Now it's, guitars, Cadillac's, Hillbilly music..rrrrnnnuaaahhh-shhhh…Well yah git down the fiddle, an' yah git down the bow, kick off yer shoes an'' yah throw 'em on the flo'. Dance in the kitchen 'till the mornin' light, Lou'siana Saturday Night!...cccrrrssshhhh…Oh! Maybelline! Why can't you be true? You done started doin' the things you used to do…ppplluunnrrrsshhhh…"

"Havin' some trouble there? Is that mean, old radio kickin' your ass?"

"What is _with_ this hick-town?!" She snarled with gritted teeth and impatient eyes, cranking on the dial. "Oldies, oldies, classic rock, Country, Gospel, Country, some German polka of all things, and more freakin' Country!"

"Welcome to Central Pennsylvania."

"I thought we'd be close enough to at least pick up _one_ big city."

"Nah, this's it. There's mostly country-western, a few gospel, a few more classic rock stations, one harder rock station who's idea of heavy metal is Metallica, that polka station, which is actually Polish by-the-by…and Oldies. There's one called Beau's Beats Buffet, it's the better of the bunch."

"There had better be something good on here or I'm gonna lose it."

"It's not my truck, so, just don't break anything." He resumed watching Clyde's trailer and the glow behind its window blinds. It was coming up on midnight and still no one had shown themselves. Clyde had emerged once to cram a few envelopes into the outgoing mailbox, but that had been all. A shaft of light shone from the trailer's side, then was cut off again as Clyde walked out with four trash bags stuffed to their limits. It looked like Clyde had put some boxes into the bags and their corners were tearing at the plastic. He made it halfway to the dumpster before one split wide open, dumping the two boxes, pizza crumbs, chicken bones, empty cans and some soppy, liquid mess all over the road.

"Ahhhhh…goddamn it." They could hear his swearing from their vantage point. He lobbed the unbroken bags into the dumpster, then went back for the rest. In the buzzing streetlight's glow, Naota recognized one of the boxes as the same Clyde had gotten from FedEX; biohazard sticker and all. As Clyde carried it, Naota aimed their camera, flicked off the flash, and snapped a picture with the biohazard sticker front and center. Clyde wrapped the box in the ripped bag, tossed them away, and after skirting the mess on the road, went back inside.

"Oh, I got one!" Haruko announced, still fiddling with the radio. "Get a load of this." Smooth jazz began playing, followed by the opening bars of a flowing, passionate song, voiced by a singer of powerful tones.

 _There, used to be a graying tower, alone on the sea…  
_

 _You…became the light, on the dark side of me…_

 _Looovvvee! Remained a drug that's the high and not the pill…_

 _But did you know, that when it snows, my eyes become large…_

 _And the light that you shine can be seen!_

 _Baby! I compare to a kiss from a Rose on the Gray…*_

"Oh please, fuck no…" Naota reached for the dial. A stinging slap from Haruko knocked his hand away. "For cryin' out loud…"

"What? What's the matter, don't like Seal? You hatin' on my boy Seal, huh Naota?"

"No, that's not, just move your hand…" He tried again and again, and she kept pushing and shoving his hands aside; smirking at each of his failed attempts. Her reflexes were too fast for him to outmaneuver.

"…Now that your Rose is in bloom, a light hits the gloom on the Gray!" Haruko sang, for lack of a better word, along; threatening to wake the entire neighborhood with her caterwauling. "C'mon, lighten up and sing along! There's a round part coming up."

"No thank you." He managed to get past her hands and changed stations to one on commercial break. "Ah. That's better."

"Stick in the mud." She harrumphed, then wrinkled her nose, squinted her eyes and stuck out her tongue too, for good measure. "Hey, where're you going?"

"Over to the dumpster." A thought had occurred to him. He was halfway out his door, looking around for alerted eyes. "Clyde threw something in there with a biohazard sticker on it. Maybe it's important."

"Now you're using your noodle. You'll make a _fine_ G.S.P.B. officer someday."

"If I should be so unlucky, sure." He closed his door and started forward. "Are you coming or not?"

"Like hell. I've been dumpster diving in this adventure once already, and that's plenty. It's your turn, I'll keep watch."

" _Thanks_. Just, wait in the truck then."

"Have fun." As Naota tip-toed the hundred yards to the dumpster, the radio ended its commercial break.

"…This's Ninety-Eight-Point-Eight, Great Jazz Late. We're going to be serenading you and yours alllll...night...long, but first something from the silver screen. Mister Henry Mancini and The Pink Panther.**"

'And of course she turns it up.' Naota could hear the saxophone wafting his way through the otherwise still night. At least the crickets and frogs were getting a good show. Half of the dumpster was visible in the streetlight…and it was only then he realized he didn't have a flashlight. It couldn't be helped, and the box had to be on top anyway. He hoisted himself onto the rim and and spotted the box, smack dab in the middle. Hey, where else would it be?

'Okay, turn…easy…easy…' The metal, wetted with mist, rain and what he hoped was mud, proved a tenuous hold at best. 'Always maintain three points of contact at all times-OH SHIT!' Back-first he tumbled in, landing so he stared up at the stars, between two foul smelling plastic bags.

'No big deal…we're cool. Just shower twice when you get home, shower in Purell that is…okay…' One step found semi-solid footing on a soggy mattress, the other foot sunk straight up to his hip. Working himself free, he lunged forward, this time face first into what must have been an expired anti-vampire kit; that's the only thing that could reek that strongly of garlic. He looked up to gauge his progress, one more jump ought to do.

"So, do you want me to let you play around for a while, and come back later?"

"What're you doing over here?" Haruko had vacated her post in the truck and now straddled the dumpster's wall; watching him flounder. "Damn it, didn' I tell you to wait in the truck? Oh wow, was that Rig or me just now?"

"I was gonna say…" She smiled, teeth flashing in the dark. "Anyway, Clyde's lights and computer are off. I think he's clocked out for the night."

"That's… _hurrff!_ A relief." He made the last leap to the dumpster wall and she helped him climb back out. "Got it. Let's go where there's more light. I don't have anything stuck on me, do I?"

"Uhhh…" She circled him, giving him a once-over. "Nothin' but that pack of used condoms stuck to your back."

"Is…" He felt his blood freeze and all color drain from his skin. "Is there really?"

"Nah, just a banana peel." She flounced off for the truck. "Or… _IS_ it? I'll let you find out!"

"I ask a serious question…" He threw the banana peel back from whence it came, then looked at the box in his hands. It was the biohazard one alright, addressed to Jack Smith at Number 6. A quick smell from opening the lid was bitter, and reminded him of unripened tomatoes. A wad of receipts was jammed at the bottom, but he didn't dare touch them. It wasn't worth the risk of getting some sort of toxin on his hands.

"Hey, can you call Rig real quick? My hands are full, in my front left pocket." Haruko made the call and put Rig on speaker.

"Yo." Rig answered immediately. "What's up, you two finally comin' up for air?"

"I need you to look something up for me." He ignored Rig's tease. "It's something of Clyde's from the trash."

"Dumpster divin'…you have interestin' ideas of a night on the town…" Rig logged into the office's computer. "Alrighty, go ahead."

"What kind of a plant comes in a biohazard box, has…dark green leaves, and a mix of a very strong, flowery smell and unripened tomatoes? Oh, and is called…lemme see if this's the right receipt." By the streetlight, he could read the receipt on top of the pile. "Atropa belladonna?"

"…Unripe tomatoes…hold up. Atropa… _belladonna?_ "

"Yeah? I don't know plants so…"

"Belladonna's a deadly nightshade. The berries, leaves, stems, trunk, roots an' all, are _stupidly_ poisonous. You're not holding one, are you?!"

"Just the box it came in."

"I think you need to come back to the shop. Now."

. . .

It is said that waiting for something horrible to happen is almost as bad, if not worse than, the actual thing you're waiting for. In a general trend, I agree. Tommy had said George would be back 'any minute' and I would explain myself then. Until that time arrived, I decided the best use of my time would be to see how much dip I could cram into my lip at once. Stress chewin', it's what we're havin' for midnight snack.

"Hey Rig…you, do know, you're not s'posed to do half the can at once, right?" Mike asked as I put my tin away. "I know you've been chewing for two years but…"

"Eh. It's my gum cancer." _Haaaauuuuuckkkkkk…th-puh._ "'Sides, it's my funeral when George gets home. Might as well chew while I can."

"Ohhh…I don't reckon it'll be as bad as you think..." Johnny was lying to me. May GABS and the FSM bless him for trying. "I mean, these screenshots nail Clyde to the wall, plus whatever Naota and Haruko found in the trash." He did have good points, so I had those goin' for me, which was nice. Naota and Haruko had pulled a dirty secret of Clyde's from the trash, and we could use it to bury him. I hoped they could get back before George did, that might mean less of an ass-chewing. There was a crunch of tires on gravel and an idling engine. It shut down, then the shop door creaked open, and only then did I remember that my luck has never held this long yet.

"Man, I picked the wrong timeline to quit drinkin'…" George shut the door behind him and slumped against it. "What're y'all still doing here? It's zero-dark-thirty, I thought you'd have gone home?" Josh, Mike, Johnny and I stood stock still, while Tommy didn't even look up from the computers. They were waiting for me to say something, and I for them to spare me the trouble. George wasn't going to wait for either.

"Okay, I'll share." He volunteered. "I just got back from the hospital, visiting all the guys that got poisoned. After that, I sat everyone down, Voyze, Welshman, Pike and the rest, to keep them from conducting internal witch hunts for traitors. I also spent an hour on the phone with Agent Griggs, to see about arrangements for the families of the dead. Unfortunately, because the Galactic Government's got its head up its ass, grievance funding in Overwatch is being siphoned by the G.S.P.B., to try and put more officers in the field. Twenty more of the G.S.P.B. just got killed in action. Mostly because they had been put into the field like the G.S.P.B. wants to do more of, put them on active duty before they're ready, and they tried to take on a battalion of Medical Mechanica Marines; all by themselves. SO…someone'd damn well better have some good news for me."

"Uh…okay, well…there's some good news, and some half bad, half good news…" Trying to choke down the lump in my throat was akin to swallerin' a prickly pear. "Good news, Naota, Haruko and I, have all found some pretty hard evidence that Clyde Kauffman's behind the poisonings and is working for M-M."

"That is good. You'll have to fill me in on it all." He didn't sound overtly thrilled. His twisting of the ring on his middle right finger was another bad sign. "The half bad, half good news?"

"The intelligence we acquired…" Okay, yah know what? Let's just rip this band aid off. "I obtained my information through an unauthorized Ice Pick electronic attack after breaking into Clyde Kauffman's residence."

"Wha…!" George started to say something, but forced his mouth shut. Red flowed up from his neck, filled his face and colored his ears. He crossed, uncrossed, then recrossed his arms, and all I could do was stand there like an imbecile and wait for it all to be over. "Office. Now. The rest of you are dismissed. Go home." As I followed George out and around to the office, I could hear Tommy belay the go home order. He said Mike, Josh and Johnny weren't going anywhere and were to stay; they had a hard drive and email accounts to dig through.

"Let's…take a step back for a second, and look at this, from an over-all view." George was too agitated to sit. I was too jittery to be still. So we both stood. "You approach and interact with First Class Space Patrol Officer Haruko Haruhara, despite direct orders to the contrary. You then hire her to work for G&R Fabrication, our front and family business, making her in the loosest technical sense, a part of Overwatch. The fact she has not figured out who we are, I find miraculous. At best, she knows something about us is off. And now. And now, you have broken into a potential enemy agent's house, and ordered our Electronic Warfare Officer to conduct an Ice Pick Malware attack, without authorization from your commanding officer or your Station Chief, or without probable cause. Does that sound about right? Or is there _MORE_ you want to tell me?"

"N-no, that's…'bout right."

"Okay, so we have that established. I'll give you a chance to explain."

"George…whaddyah want me to say? People are dying, and there was precisely fuck-all we could do about it. Shit, I was almost a star witness to a lynching this afternoon! I don't know what Voyze had in his pocket, but it sure's hell wasn't a water spritzer. What do you think that would've done to morale, watching their boss blow some guy's head off? You said yourself they were about to organize a witch hunt. This's Clyde's whole deal, to get us fighting each other and scared of our shadows. All I wanted to do was stop him before _another_ group of guys keels over and the rest rip each other apart lookin' for who-dun-it." I paused to see how I was doing. George didn't interrupt, so I went on. "So when Naota called to say Clyde was leaving his trailer, which was proving to be a rare event, I saw an opportunity to access his computer for relevant information. I also made a quick sweep for any chemicals or poisons stored there."

"Did you find any poisons or chemicals?"

"No, but I…"

"One thing at a time." He took off his glasses, running a hand over his face, drawing circles on tightly shut eyes. Blinking blearily, he looked at me and seemed to have aged an extra decade instantly. "Rig, Jeff…I don't know what to do with you. I'm just, stunned, that someone's smart and promising as you, could so easily do something so reckless and _blatantly_ against the rules. We are given serious leeway, so much it would make a Constitutionalist's head spin, but this is too much."

"Oh, come on! Sure, we don't want to be the Stasi or the KGB, but we sure's hell ain't Boy Scouts either! There's a reason we don't have to stand in line for some bureaucrat busy-body to approve our every action and make us fill out a form when we wanna take a piss. We have to get things done in a timely fashion, and can't afford something as stupid as messed up paperwork. A file clerk at the State Patrol screws up, the wrong house gets no-knocked. We screw up and our entire planet is gone. What would've you had me do, knowing what I did? Have me stand around with my thumb stuck up my ass?"

"I would've had you, at the very least, call Tommy; preferably myself. And I probably would have approved you too, if you had just asked."

"You? Make a snap decision, without thinking about how to kick that particular can down the road first? I'm sure Herr Dahl would attest to your ability to really think on your feet; if he wasn't in stuck in physical therapy right now."

"Don't try to make this about me. I have to live with my mistakes like everyone else. And this isn't just a broken rules issue."

"It isn't?"

"What was your plan if Clyde came back early, he'd forgotten his wallet so he turned around, what then? What if his couriers, or brothers, decided to pay a visit? What if you'd opened that door and there was a dammed Man in Black sittin' on the fucking couch? How would we know if you were in trouble, but couldn't call for help? How, or where, would we know to start looking for you if you'd gotten killed? What then?"

"I know the risks of this job just as well as anyone."

"That's not what I asked. How would we know to start looking for you if you had been killed, but didn't even tell us where you were?"

"…I don't know. Follow the gunshots."

"That's not funny."

"I gotta laugh, or I'm gonna cry."

"See, this's the real problem. You seem to have no sense, no gravity, of this stunt you pulled. We are a unit, and have to work together and keep in contact. There's no lone-wolfing it. And to do that, we have a set of guidelines everyone is held accountable to."

"Have you forgotten we are standing on the edge of war? And I don't have gravity? Please. Besides, there are obviously times for rules and regs, but when people we swore to protect are dying, I will honor that promise before worrying about crossing my T's and dotting my I's."

"So what, screw the rules because it's convenient, because things are a little hectic?"

"No, _fuck_ the rules when that fat-fuck Clyde's killed fifteen people, Craig tried to burn down half the county, Cole is bringing an Orwellian nightmare to life, and we haven't even managed to kill one, JUST ONE, goddamn Medical Mechanica Marine!"

"You know, your father had the _EXACT_ same feelings about rules and authority, and we saw how that turned out; didn't we?!"

. . .

'This can't be good.' Naota parked in their usual spot in front of G&R. As he shut off, the office door was kicked open and strained against its hinges as it banged off the wall. A livid Rig stormed out, followed by an apologizing George.

"Alright, I admit that was uncalled for. Rig, c'mon Rig, let's start over…"

"I said **FUCK OFF.** " Rig mounted his Ought-Too and vanished into the darkness, the tail light narrowing to a pinprick before it too was gone. Everyone from the shop was now outside in the midnight chill, staring at each other.

"Hey Tommy, uhm…well…we found this. It was in Clyde's trash. I was going to give it to Rig, but since he's…not here…" Naota held out the FedEX box and wondered if he should ask, say or do something; if at all. "Be careful not to get any of the stuff on you. Rig said it's really poisonous."

"Hmmm…" Tommy accepted the box, watching the last spot Rig had been visible. "Oh, thank you." He realized he was holding something. "Thank you, Naota and Miss Haruko." He gave a grim smile and was quiet again. Even Haruko was uncharacteristically keeping her opinions to herself. Now George turned and headed back into the office. He was rubbing the back of his neck and mumbling to himself, and slammed the door behind him.

"Is there anything we can do? Tommy?"

"I'm sorry Naota. It's been a very trying day." He closed his eyes, and seemed lost in thought. Opening them, Tommy gave orders. "Mike…please go to the Country Convenience and get sandwiches for yourself, Johnny and Josh. You three have a lot of data to sift through. Pull Canti off the robot to help. See what other avenues open up through Clyde's computer. Naota, Miss Haruko. You've had a long day too, one of you smells, and it's very late. Go and get some sleep, and we'll pick up again in the morning."

"Are you sure? I mean, we can stay and help…" Naota was quick to offer but Tommy waved him off.

"No, you've done enough for today. Please…just…just go home."

. . .

George was sitting behind the desk with the computer. He was staring at the monitor, watching a G&R logo bounce around the screen and slowly twisting his ring. The door creaked open and Tommy entered, quietly latching it behind him. Neither dared to look at the other, so George kept on the screen and Tommy studied the wall-wide map of Pennsylvania. Tick-tack...tick-tock went the clock in the corner, perched atop a filing cabinet. Tack-tick…

"Okay, I guess I'll start." Tommy still stared at the map, George at the computer. "What did you do?"

"Me, what did I do? Your cousin's the one who seems to think he makes the calls around here."

"They why did he look like murder when he left? I've only seen him look like that twice before, and that's when he and his Dad fought. What did you do?"

"…I compared him to his Dad."

"Ahhhggg…fuck-all George. Why didn't you just put his Bronco in a crusher, melt down his guns, drop Back-Breaker in a wood chipper, and blow up his dirt bike?! All of that would've been a softer, kinder 'fuck you' for him. What, were you losing the argument or something?"

"You heard it all, I imagine."

"People in Pittsburgh heard you."

"He just wouldn't listen, he was refusing to see how he was in the wrong. I mean, he didn't deny what he did…"

"But, there's a but there, isn't there? But what? Do you always gotta be right? Do you have any idea what he actually found on Clyde's computer? No, you don't. You're too worried about chain of command and making sure we don't look bad."

"No, it's about minimizing unnecessary risks, and maintaining our anonymity. That's our greatest asset right now, that the M-M Marines up the road have no idea we're here. Rig just rushing into things without our knowing doesn't help that effort at all."

"Judge not, lest ye be judged. If I were you, I'd go to the bathroom behind you, look at my teeth in the mirror and remember my own past, my own history of doing things my way once upon a time."

"That's exactly my point!"

"But you did save everyone else in your squad, did you not?"

"Yes, and I have learned from my mistakes. I don't want him to have to learn the hard way, you know all about that too."

"I have and do, don't get me wrong." Tommy turned to George and lifted up his shirt to his chin. "And I get reminded of it every day, every morning." Starting from a golf-ball sized patch left of his navel, an angry, deep red line ran a jagged zig-zag up Tommy's stomach and chest, stopping just to the side and below of his heart. "Every day this little fucker's trying to kill me, because of a time I improvised on the job. I nearly gave my life for the I.I.B., and it's only by sheer dumb luck I'm above the dirt. But if I had a chance to go back, I'd still transfer to the I.I.B. like I did, and still do what I did a thousand times over."

"I get what you're saying, but Rig's still fairly new to this. He doesn't truly grasp the responsibility we have; be it I.I.B., Overwatch or G.S.P.B. He doesn't think of down the road consequences, side effects…"

"I think he's plenty aware of the consequences and side effects of his job, of being in one of the three Galactic Government's services. He knows that his sisters and brother want nothing to do with us and moved halfway around the planet, and one, OFF the planet. He knows he hasn't seen his mother in three years. He also knows it's partially why there's an empty casket buried behind Gethsemane United Methodist in Morrisdale, with his father's stone above it. I'll bet he's there right now, wondering why he still feels like he can never do anything right."

"And that's why I came down on him. I don't want to carry _another_ empty casket to the Carson family plot. After all, the first one's partly my fault anyway." George propped his elbows on the desk and laid his face in his hands. Not just because he was fatigued to where his eyes stung from sleep lost, but he couldn't bring himself to look at Tommy. "There were a dozen opportunities for me to say something, to step in. But who was I to go against Rig's father, one of Earth's very first G.S.P.B. Officers? That and the excuses I told myself, it wasn't _really_ my business, if I just left it alone, things would work out; my laissez-faire gone bad."

"And you're trying to make up for that by pretending to be a hard-ass? Give it up, the style just ain't you. Gunny Sergeant Hartman you ain't...more like…Jimmy Buffett." At Tommy's comparison, both were able to crack small, sad smiles; and the pressure in the room ebbed to a tolerable level.

"Now you know why I didn't want this job."

"Yeah? Well, now you're stuck in the middle with us, so get used to it and start adapting. You're only a few months behind, can still catch up."

"Which brings us full-circle back to Rig. As an adaptive Station Chief, what'd you have me do? Pat him on the back?"

"Just treat him the same's every other agent, resist the Mother Hen impulse. Hear his entire story and what can be made of it. Then, judge if his actions had been indeed worth the risks."

"I definitely could've framed my point better. Put it as a 'learning from mistakes' moment."

"See? You're catching up already. Always look at the bigger picture. Should he have asked for approval? Probably, yeah. Should he have called us to let us know? At least. Would I have done the same as him? Most likely. And he IS an Overwatch Agent, he'd put up one hell of a fight if something bad happened, we both know it. _But_ , looking at the bigger picture, did Rig, on Clyde's computer, find toxicology, herbology, hydroponics and indoor growing books, emails and receipts for all the poisons used so far, a conversation with Cole insinuating at a county-wide roundup, _and_ a few gigabytes of rape porn and what looks like a snuff film? Without, a fucking doubt."

"Is all that really on Clyde's computer?" George finally was able to look at Tommy. He asked for the list to be repeated. "A _snuff_ film?"

"If it's a fake, it's a really elaborate and involved fake."

"What _happened_ to Clyde?" George shook his head. "I remember, must have been twelve years ago…" He trailed off. "How does someone…Christ Ah-mighty…"

"Doesn't matter how Clyde went off the deep end, and I don't care. We've got bigger problems."

"You're right…about a lot more than I give you due for. C'mon, show me what Rig found."

"Shouldn't we go look for him?"

"Like you said, he's an Overwatch Agent." George then made a point at his own expense. "And I pissed him off. Anyone that tries to mess with him will probably get their face beat in."

"That's my entire point." Tommy explained.

"Fair enough." George conceded. "Let's go then, I really hope he hasn't picked any fights…" They got into Tommy's truck and he took off at All-Ahead-Full. "There's rumors of a Hell's Angels chapter trying to start up somewhere 'round here."

"All the enemies we have, and you're worried about the Hell's Angels?"

"Yah never know…" George was interrupted by Tommy's phone.

"This's Tommy, you're live and on the air."

"Hey Tom. It's me." A subdued and worn-out sounding Rig was on the other end. "Are you and George still at the shop?"

"We're…uh, just up the road a ways." Tommy pulled over to the berm. "Why, what's up? Where are you?"

"I'm ready to come back. I'm on my way, ten, fifteen minutes out."

"Okay, sure thing. Get back here safe…right, see you then."

. . .

* * *

Songs:

*Kiss from a Rose - Seal

**The Pink Panther - Henry Mancini

Oo-De-Lally... Oo-De-Lally... Golly, what a day... Where to begin?

If I'd had known, I'd have warned you about Clyde. Well, I suppose Rig did a little. I went into this chapter not quite sure how Clyde was going to turn out, but I like (it's very much a love/hate/disgusted relationship) with how his character has turned out. He is a bit more clever than Craig, but quite a scale nastier. I didn't want to make his flaws grossly obvious, as the easiest way is the most cliche. A feeder of pain and suffering though, I humor myself thinking it's more subtle.

Over this past weekend, I visited my alma mater for a football game and to meet up with old roommates; one of whom was a proof-reader and idea-bouncer for my 'Redneck of Roanapur'. The patience of a Buddha, that man. During that three hour drive up, and three hour drive back, I think I have Haruko's past more or less laid out. You may guess that it's not one filled with rainbows, sprinkles, unicorn farts and merry leprechauns...and you would guessed right. I am a listener of an online philosopher that has a bit about empathy, and how letting it get the better of you, is in itself a sin. With the backstory I have brewing for Mizz Haruhara, her outburst about Naota's empathy fits quite well.

Speaking of backstories, the Carson's have one a little more complicated then just what's on the surface. I have seen what being in the military can do to families, with long deployments, painful wounds and other horrible effects such as PTSD. It is a serious matter, warranting respectful discussion. It also seems that being in the service of Overwatch, the Interstellar Immigration Bureau and the Galactic Space Patrol Brotherhood, is no exception. Tommy and George have their own marks they carry, hopefully for Rig's sake he won't follow in his elders footsteps and get out in one piece; physically at the very least.

Alright, enough dark thoughts. I have the Irish Rovers playing in the background, so it's impossible to be such a gloom and doomer. It is my hope that the shorter time frame did not short you on quality, and that you enjoyed this chapter; in both its dark and light moments. If you think poorly of this chapter and I should have worked longer on it, please feel free to mercilessly shred me in the review section. If you enjoyed it, and want more as soon as is prudent, you know what to do.

Thank you all again very much for reading, and since Turkey Day is just a few days away here in the US of A, I wish everyone reading (and even everyone that isn't) a Happy Thanksgiving. May you be gifted more blessings that you can begin to count.


	12. Chapter 12

Let's see, where to begin? Where's my list? I had it right here...hang on...I swear I'm going to fire my secretary...she's lucky she's cute...there it is. Ahem. For those of you who celebrate Christmas, I hope it was well spent with family and friends. Those of you who are of the non-Christian walks, I hope your December was as equally joyous. To all, I am sure you are making excellent progress on your New Year resolutions. I know I'm not! Now, on to the reason you're really here!

* * *

. . .

Friday morning, August 12th, began as ordinarily as any other Friday for the past month. And, if all y'all've been payin' 'ttention, you'll have noticed the emerging trend; in that it didn't stay that way.

*Bee-Bee-Bee-BEEP*…*Bee-Bee-Bee-BEEP* Naota's alarm would jar him and Haruko awake at 6:30. He had been putting the clock on his desk across the room and letting it blare as he got out his clothes. If he didn't, and hit snooze instead, nothing short of Atomsk's arrival on the front porch would cajole Haruko out of bed.

"H-uuhnnn…'ss too early…" She'd groan with eyes still squinted shut, hair sticking out in hedgehog spikes. "Let's…let's just call in today…" She'd suggest as the alarm clock still beeped.

"'Fraid that's not gonna happen. Oh no you don't!" He gave the bunkbed a hearty shake whenever she burrowed back under the covers, pillow folded over her head to block out the alarm. "Listen up you free-loader! If I gotta get up, you're getting up too! Now move it or I'm eating ALL the bacon, and you'll get _nothing!_ "

"Aye-freakin'-aye Sergeant, this Recruit is moving Sergeant…who promoted you to head Fun-Nazi?" Grumbling, and with a few other words under her breath, she'd crawl down from the top bunk and slouch over to shut off the alarm. Only once she'd gotten out of bed would he go use the bathroom and get dressed.

'It's like living with an adult-sized child, I swear…' TAC! TAC! TAC! That would be her knocking. "Yeah?"

"Hurry uuppp! I gotta go!"

"If you got out of bed at a decent time, you _could_ go first."

"What-ever! You're sure taking a long time; do you need some help?"

"No, no, I think I've got it…"

"Do you want me to help you aim?"

'Correct that.' He thought, pulling on his shirt. 'An _immature,_ adult-sized child.'

With the pair finally washed, brushed, fluffed, buffed, and combed, they said good morning to Canti in the kitchen. He…well, got up? Do robots really sleep? We'll use 'got up' to make it easier. Canti got up at 5:00 with Shingekuni, who was always out the door by 5:45 for 6:00 morning coffee with the rest of Osceola Mills' veterans at the V.F.W. Post. While Haruko started their coffee and lunch, Naota would start breakfast; the menu depended on his mood. That day was eggs, peppers, onions and hash cut potatoes with bacon, all shoveled down steaming hot with a mug of coffee 'deep enough to drown your crappy mornings in.' With a canteen in one hand, lunch bag in the other, steel toed boots on their feet, and G&R Fabrication and Cranes caps atop their heads, and Canti following, they'd set off for work. Usually Rig would greet them at the office door. Sam, Gus, Bolt, and Piddles: The Wonder Dog, would all be there as well in a yapping, slobbering, and tail-wagging mob. This morning, Rig was not at the office, the dogs were absent, and so too were George and Tommy's trucks. Johnny, Josh and Mike weren't due in for another fifteen minutes. Unsure of what to do and with no one to ask, Naota sought the only visible Carson on the property.

"Good morning Mrs. Carson."

"Oh Naota, how many times do I have to say 'Rita' is just fine?" Rig's Aunt Rita was in the garden next to their house, weeding before the summer sun became too much. "The 'Missus' is much too formal for me."

"Sorry. I'm just wondering…"

"Where everyone is this morning?" She guessed his thoughts. "I'm sorry they didn't tell you, George and Tommy won't be in today. They had to go meet with a potential client out of town."

"Oh, okay. Where's Rig at least? He's always here first." When he asked this, Rita's face fell a little.

"Ah, yes. Well…promise you won't give him a hard time about it…" She dropped her voice, watching an uninterested Haruko behind him. It seemed Rita trusted Haruko about as much as anyone else at G&R. "But Jeff's kinda…grounded."

"He is? What happened, if that's okay to ask?"

"I'm not sure. I think it was something to with that…Mecha-Mining business, or whatever you call it." She gestured to the office door. "Jeff, George and Tommy were up very late after you left, had a bit of a spat. Reminds me of when Jeff's father was…" Her last sentence trailed off, most likely meant for just herself.

"Jeff, Rig's, Dad? I heard they didn't get along?"

"Goodness me, I'm sorry. Me and my big mouth!" Rita scolded herself, then put down her weeding basket. "Well…I'll say this much. Both George and Jeff's Dad used to travel a lot, for work. So there were lots of times he was gone and Jeff didn't have anyone but himself. And, his Dad wasn't…wasn't always able to leave work, at work."

"What kind of work did they do?"

"Uhmmm…" This question made Rita visibly uncomfortable. "That was before I married George. I think it was…some kind of contract work; something for the government. George got out of it when his Dad, Jeff's Grandfather passed. Jeff's Dad stayed on, I guess. Whatever it was, it was very stressful; on the whole family."

"He's never mentioned it, I never knew. Then again, I didn't think it right to ask. I knew someone back home in Japan, whose father's job bled into their home." He recalled Ninamori and her father, Mabase's mayor. Much more than once had his office dragged her under the scrutiny of the public.

"If I've learned anything about these Carsons, they'll tell you what they want you to know if and when they're ready." Rita offered a half-assurance. "You just keep being you."

"How'll that help? No offense meant…"

"None taken. It's just, you've been a very good friend for Jeff when he needed one."

"That's very generous of you, but I'm sure he has…" Naota stopped mid-sentence as a brick wall of revelation hit him full in the face. All of June and July, be it working at the shop, jamming together on their guitars, shooting the 3-Gun course, working out, riding dirt bikes, fishing or even just playing billiards at the YMCA…not once had Rig mentioned or invited anyone else. While Naota still corresponded with Ninamori, Gaku and Masashi on a semi regular basis, it only occurred then and there, and Naota felt a terrible fool for not noticing…that Rig had no friends besides him; and didn't appear to have had any before Naota had moved in from Japan.

"I'm sorry?" Rita jarred him back from his own world.

"Oh, sorry, uh, I was just saying he's been a good friend too. He's really made the transition from Japan to Pennsylvania ten times easier than it probably would have been otherwise."

"If you want to thank him yourself, and you probably need your orders for today too, he's out on the runway. I will warn you that he is _not_ in a good mood…but maybe you can cheer him up?"

"I'm willing to try. Thank you Mrs…Rita."

"You're welcome!" Rita beamed and went back to weeding. Naota waved for Haruko and he drove the toolbox truck through the Boneyard. By now, Johnny, Josh, and Mike had arrived and Canti had said he was needed in the shop.

"So what did you find out?" Haruko asked, rearranging herself into an optimal napping position against the truck door. "You were quite the Chatty-Kathy."

"Nothing of consequence, to you. Just that Rig's out on the runway somewhere."

"Doin' what?"

"Dunno, we'll find out." They rounded the mountain's curve and followed the strip gouged into the Earth. Half a mile away, they could see Haruko's impact crater, and a figure atop the dirt pile next to it.

"Ohhhh…oh-ho-ho! Is, is he doin' what I _think_ he is?!" Haruko was already sporting a smirking smile and it only got bigger with proximity to Rig. "No, no way!"

'Ahhh…crap.' Naota thought as they approached a shovel in hand Rig; already coated in sweat, morning dew, and dust. 'This's gonna be all kinds of suck…'

. . .

Thursday night Clyde had gone to bed, but not to sleep. He lay awake with thoughts divided between the McDonalds across town, and the small forest cultivating below his floorboards. He'd been having _such_ a good day, playing with his latest toy Conwell. Of course Rick would have to ruin it for him, and then make him a fool in front of the entire restaurant. And then still, tattle on him to Cole! That was the part that stung worst, being scolded like some stupid child.

'And running right to the State Patrol. Oh noooo…' He whined up at the ceiling. 'Ohhhh noooooo…couldn't call the Philipsburg P.D., the Sheriff's office. Nooooope. Had to go straight to the Patrol; didn'ja Rick?' For another hour he fretted about what could be done and how to go about those options. Finally, an idea dawned on him; and was surprised that he didn't think of it sooner. 'Ahhh…of course. That would work perfectly. And Cole could help no problem, especially with any security footage.' With a plan in mind, Clyde had settled into sleep, listening to another summer storm patter down on his trailer's roof.

. . .

"Goooooood morn'…"

"Not ah word outta you!" Rig cut off Haruko's greeting and tossed down other shovelful of stone. "I am in no mood!"

"…Well, _okay_ then…" Even she was taken aback by Rig's snap.

"Rig, feel free to not answer, but what're you doing out here?" Naota could feel eggshells underfoot.

"I…am…grounded. _Huuaaacckkkkk….P-THUH._ " He answered and spat a heavy dallop of tobacco juice into the crater.

"And your punishment's filling in the hole I made?! Ah-hahaha! Ohhh, oh, that's priceless…"

"One more word outta you…" Rig's face darkened and his eyes flared in a dangerous flash as Haruko clutched her stomach in laughter. "An' Ah'm gonna shove this shovel's handle up yer ass an' carry yah 'round like ah goddam Popsicle!"

"Oooo! I'm _sooo_ scared!"

"For fuck's sake Haruko!" Naota realized this was going nowhere good fast. "He's already grounded and doing _your_ job! Don't kick him while he's down!"

"What's got into _you?_ " She rounded on him, looking almost disappointed.

"Look, it's way too early for crap like this." Naota sighed and already felt the creeping signs of headache. "Haruko, could you please go amuse yourself? The adults need to talk."

"Fine…fine, fine, _fine…_ whatever…"

"Sorry about her Rig." He apologized as Haruko kicked aimlessly around the crater's edge.

"Hey, don't feel like you have to 'pologize for her." Rig leaned on his shovel. He was listening to Naota, but watching Haruko. "It ain't your fault she's got no tact. Let her get back-handed a few times for runnin' her mouth, smacked with ah shovel once or twice, and see if _that_ don't improve her attitude."

"You don't, _really_ think you can get that shovel handle up her ass…do you?"

"I dunno…but I'm of half a mind to give it a try."

"Couldn't say I recommend it. But seriously, really. What're you doing out here?"

"…Don't tell Bubble-Gum-Brain over there…" Rig took a minute to decide. "But I'm grounded 'cause I broke into Clyde's trailer and copied everything on his computer."

"YOU!..." He almost shouted, then remembered the extra set of ears a few yards away. "You did _what?_ "

"When you were following Clyde at Mc' E-D's, I got in and made a copy, simple's that. The door was just tin, could break in with a tuna can opener. Anyway, there's some stuff that was on there you ought to see."

"I'm sure there is, but did you really have to break into his trailer? That's pretty risky; I can understand why you're grounded." Naota reminded himself he'd broken into Craig's car to get at his phone. But someone's trailer, someone's home, felt an order higher in seriousness. It was not to be taken lightly. "Is there time to look it all over now, or is it better to wait until evening?"

"…Can give you the Cliff-Notes version before you head out."

"Sure."

"Somewhere, somehow, Clyde's been growing, by himself most likely, all the plants being used. He has a library of PDF's and e-books on indoor growing, hydroponics, toxicology, and that sort of thing. Enough for a drug raid if I were in the club of Dick-Eating-Assholes." Rig answered, using his favorite term for the Drug Enforcement Administration.

"Really, all that from one computer?"

"Uh-huh. So, whaddyah wanna do?" There it was again. Rig was putting him on the spot, the decision was his. Naota wondered if there was some agenda or method to it, and looked at his friend; this time knowing he was Rig's _only_ friend. There _couldn't_ be some ulterior motive behind Rig, the Carsons, G &R…could there? He would admit there were oddities about the group; ones that if presented all at once to persons uninitiated would cause alarm. Their stubborn independent streak, emphasis on self-reliance, a disgust for what they called 'collective tyranny and authoritarianism', deep-seated distrust and suspicion of law enforcement, and a devout, abhorrent _loathing_ of politicians, bureaucrats, and elected officials. But they had all gone out of their way, especially Rig, to help him, and in doing so, begun gaining his trust. Never had they given him a reason to think they were somehow lying to him.

However, as he remembered his early experiences with Haruko and the trauma those had inflicted, he knew blind trust was foolish. Although, Haruko had only given, in hindsight, what felt like a half-baked effort in pretending to care about his well-being, Rig and his family, and G&R, seemed to have genuine interests. So while he had some questions to ask Haruko immediately, he could comfortably go along with Rig a little while longer.

"Okay, here's what I'm thinking. We're at the same moment we were with Craig; especially if even half of what you're telling me is true. We've got Clyde doing a lot of sketchy-as-hell stuff, but nothing blatantly illegal. I have a feeling though, especially after what we saw yesterday afternoon, that the moment we're looking for, is staring us right in the face."

"Alright… _p-thuh._ " Rig spat tobacco, mulled it over, and chewed. "Whaddyah need?"

"Give me today, and use of the company truck tomorrow, forty-eight hours. You don't have to pay me for Saturday, if you don't want to."

" _…_ _Huuuuaaacckkkk…p-thuh._ You've got 'em!" Rig gave him a clap on the shoulder, and with a smile, that strange Carson light in his eyes rekindled. "Go and find what you need, and nail that no-good bastard to the fuckin' wall!"

. . .

Despite the pleasant weather of sunny, seventy-two and breezy, Clyde was sweating to death. He'd mentally rehearsed his plan the whole night through, the early morning as he'd eaten breakfast. He'd practiced the exact motions, researched and memorized the layout of the area, parking lot, and restaurant inside and out. He had even given himself a rough time table. In, out, gone…three minutes. That was provided of course, that everything went perfectly. This was his first "operation", as Cole would have called it, that he was doing himself. Up 'till then, the field work had been done by men Carl recruited, Caleb bribed, or Cole threatened. But this was now a matter of damaged personal pride, public humiliation, and bruised feelings; three things Clyde could not abide. His whole life had been the butt of jokes, rejection and embarrassment. Nagging from Cole, and even…and even orders from The Man in Black himself, be damned. It was payback time.

. . .

The flight from Fort Bragg to Pennsylvania was scheduled to be mercifully short, but was unforgivingly bumpy to Agent Griggs. He hated flying, always had, and most likely, always would. But there was no avoiding this trip. His part was to ensure the impressive heap of shipping crates filled with weapons, and 'SPAM cans' of ammunition actually reached the Midstate Airport, and didn't disappear into the surrounding Appalachian Mountains. Even the plane itself, an aging C-123 Provider with only half its Coast Guard markings retained, was at risk of vanishing. The Pilot had freely admitted his record of stolen aircraft was "…No more'n…'bout thirty planes…but cert'nly no less'n twenty…" and he had also hauled more than his "fair share of all kinds of neat 'n' nasty toys, from pistols an' bayonets, to artillery an' Pakistani missile parts…" over his seven years in "tha greatest shippin' an' courier comp'ny you've never heard of."

"How much longer?" Agent Griggs had reluctantly made his way to the cockpit to check on their progress. He hoped to see they were lining up on Midstate's longest runway, but only saw more forest covered mountains.

"Oh…'bout…" The Pilot checked the scribble covered clipboard strapped to his leg. "'Nother twenty minutes. Ah'm gonna go out on ah limb, an' say you don' like flyin'…do yah Mister Griggs?" The Pilot grinned at him from behind a pair of mirrored aviator sunglasses.

"You won't find me joining any airplane fan clubs, I'll say that much." Agent Griggs tentatively sat on a fold out bucket seat at the empty Navigator's station. In fact, save for The Pilot, himself, and the four additional Overwatch agents guarding the cargo bay, the massive plane was uncrewed.

"Huh, w'all Ah'm sorry to hear tha'. Really, truly am. Was hopin' this flight'd change yer mind, since it's been so smooth an' all…" The Pilot said as another patch of turbulence rattled them. "This's jest cargo flight though, not much more 'xcitin' than white-washin' tha fence. You really outta ride 'long with me on an acrobatic flight. Say, Ah'm flyin' into an airshow with some students next week, you should join us. Tha'll really git yah hooked!"

"If Man had been meant to fly, we'd have been born with wings…"

"Heh, try tellin' tha' to NASA. But hey, suit yerself." The Pilot shrugged and adjusted the Provider's trim. With the aircraft perfectly set, he leaned back in his seat and took his hands off the controls to twiddle his thumbs. "An' consider yerself lucky we ain' flyin' through tha' monster." The Pilot waved for Agent Griggs to look out the side window to port. Stretching across the entirety of the horizon and from ground to what seemed the heavens was a solid mass of clouds colored the evilest of inky black.

"A supercell thunderstorm. I've never seen one from this angle…that's a lotta rain…" Agent Griggs had to admit the pilot's eye view of weather was impressive. It looked like the supercell would be hitting their destination, but not for a few hours more. He sighed with relief, his timing couldn't have been better.

"Hey…there's ah question burnin' ah hole in mah brain." The pilot continued to watch the supercell and thoughtfully stroked his beard. "What 'xactly is you plannin' on doin' with all tha ordnance?"

"I don't know what on Earth or otherwise you're talking about."

"HA! AH-HA-HAHAHA!" The Pilot laughed, taking off his sunglasses to wipe away a small tear of mirth. In doing so, Agent Griggs caught a glimpse of bright eyes on par with, and eerily similar to, the Carson's. "Don' you be playin' tha Coy Mistress with me! In ah diff'rent lifetime, some good friends an' Ah must've armed half tha baddies an' n'er-do-wellers of Southeast Asia; certainly Thailand at tha least! What you've got back there's 'nough firepower to start, an' sustain, ah small war. There's what, jest six, no, seven…eight, hundred AK-47's alone?"

"What? No! They're, those are…" Agent Griggs' stomach wasn't feeling airworthy enough for him to think of a decent ruse.

"Look, mah Russian ain' nowhere near's good as it used to be, but Ah still know what 'Avtomat Kalashnikova' means, an' would rec'gnize it stamped on ah shippin' crate anywhere."

"Well, I am not allowed to tell you…but there's nothing stopping you from asking your cousins when we land." Agent Griggs reluctantly admitted. Of course, the Carsons didn't have to tell The Pilot anything either, but kept that to himself.

"Mah _cousins?_ Really…?" The Pilot put his hands back on the controls and straightened up. "Today's lookin' to be all kinds ah interestin'…Ah should fly fer yah more often Mister Griggs."

. . .

'Another day, another dollar, so the saying goes…another morning spent stuck in Rush Hour following Clyde…maybe we should have stayed at the shop today?' Natoa drummed on the steering wheel and rolled down his window. They were trapped shy of the intersection of Presqueisle and N. Second in Philipsburg; just across the way from The Philips Hotel. It was a turn of the last century, six-storied brick structure; complete with a white-tablecloth restaurant on the first floor that was far and above Naota's budget. In the intersection, a trucker and BMW driver argued. Both had tried to pass through the intersection at the same time, and now the BMW's engine was jammed under the trucker's lowboy trailer. Naota was debating a phone call to G&R and have them bring out Clifford: The Big Red Mobile Crane, to get the two vehicles separated. In the meantime, he now had Haruko as a captive audience.

"Hey…question for you." He'd thought over how to broach the subject, and was going to try his utmost to do so delicately. Then again, he had never heard the phrase: No Battle-Plan survives first contact with the enemy.

"Hmmm?" Haruko was catnapping against her door, guitar clenched to her chest. Even after a shower, breakfast, coffee and an hour removed from the alarm clock, and she still wasn't awake.

"That little bit you had yesterday, after we left McDonald's, about empathy."

"Can't say I know what you're talking about."

"Whether you admit it or not is up to you, but where did that come from; what was it all about?"

"Eh…still don't know where you get these…yaaaawwnnn…wild ideas…" She was lying sure as she was sitting there, but as luck would have it, he had come prepared.

"I thought you'd say that." He pulled out his phone, brought up the sound files, and pressed PLAY.

*… _empathy_ for that Conwell guy, at all?*

*Naota, be careful with that word.*

*Why's that?*

*Because. An excess of empathy is a sin, and a crime. Don't sympathize with people who'll hurt you for money, for sport, or because it gets them off. Some people are only asking you to help them up, so they can get you in their striking range. And, if you're really that desperate for some moral, feel-goody, self-congratulation, you deserve every, single, knife you get stuck with.*

Naota stopped the recording and found it was for once his turn to wear the smug smile.

"I forgot to stop the recording when we left, so I got the whole thing. Oh, and Rig has a copy now too, so there's no point in trying to make me delete it." This was it, he thought. He'd finally nailed her for once. He expected her to at the very least appear _somewhat_ confused or caught off guard; he wasn't naïve enough to hope for embarrassment. He did not expect however, for her to be visibly angry.

"Alright. Yah got me sayin' what was on my mind at the spur of the moment. Big friggin' whoop, so what?"

"No, you don't get off that easy. That wasn't a spur of the moment thing." He gently pointed out. "That was an outburst of something buried deep, really deep."

"I said what I meant, and meant what I said. Quite trying to read into something that isn't there." Her jaw was tightly set, eyes narrowed and body frigidly stiff. "You've got the recording, do you hear me s-s-s-stuttering…anywhere?"

"I wasn't questioning your sincerity; that was quite evident. I want to know _where_ it came _from._ An excess of empathy is a sin, and a crime…that's not off the cuff or anything, that's personal."

"So now it's personal, is it?!" She snapped her fangs. That was a warning bite. "Just how would you know?!"

"How would I know?"

"Yeah."

"Oh, that's easy actually."

" _Really?_ "

"Yes, really. Let's paint a hypothetical portrait, shall we? Suppose it's… four years ago…in a small town in Japan. And there's a twelve year old boy, going through a rite of passage, one that I'm sure ALL twelve year old boys go through; he's faced with a dilemma. He's thinking:

'There's this woman in front of me. She's lied to me. She's tried to cheat me. She's manipulated me. She's strained the relationship between my family and friends, and myself. She's put me at great risk of physical harm, multiple times. She has opened a wormhole in my head, without my permission, one that connects to another galaxy, and has invited through giant, killer robots that have tried to smash me into red paste, and the most recent one is trying to activate a device that'll destroy my planet. She's also just tried to kill me, in what I can only describe as a blood-rage. With all this considered, there are two choices: Spare the alien woman not from this planet…or use the guitar in my hands to smash her face so hard, her head explodes like a freakin' watermelon. Decisions, decisions.' Does, does that sound familiar? Any of this ah-ringin' a bell? It really ought to, 'cause that was ME."

She didn't have anything to say. Not a word, wink, blink, sigh…nothing. She just sat there with her jaw locked, a tight line of a mouth drawn across her face, and gave him only a dead stare.

"You're not saying anything, but I bet you wanna slug me. I'm gonna keep going until I say everything I need to, and hear everything I want to. So, stop me when you can't take any more heat." He paused to let her have any say, and she maintained her silence. Why she had yet to protest was troubling. She could be stewing in a seething fury, was building an arsenal of withering comebacks, or most likely of all, truly did not give a damn what he said. Undeterred, he went on.

"Now obviously I spared you, seeing your head _isn't_ exploded like a watermelon smashed with a guitar. Why? Do you want to know why? Because, well, in hindsight, I'd say I was stupid. Know what makes me say that, that I was stupid?"

"I can think of several reasons, but let's hear yours."

"Because, I felt _sorry_ for you. I felt…what's that word…starts with an 'e'…ah! Empathy! That's it, I felt empathy. But that's the next layer, isn't it? Why'd I feel empathy? Simply…because you looked just, so, _pathetic_." If he was going to get his lights punched out, this was surely the moment…no? Okay…

"Here's a woman who has spent her entire life, the sum of her talents, skills and abilities, who was reduced to shanghaiing and emotionally screwing up a bystanding twelve year old kid because she couldn't get it done herself, and is willing to do _anything_ , up to _and including, selling her very soul,_ and facilitating the destruction of an _entire planet_ and the _extinction_ of the Human Race, for a CHANCE…No, just a chance. Not a for-sure, in the bag, drag him to the bank and lock him in the vault done-deal…but a CHANCE at capturing the powers of a so-called Pirate King. Do you realize just how insane that sounds?" He paused to check if the intersection had been cleared yet. There had been no movement.

"And that kind of dire desperation, then struck me as the strangest cry, no, _screaming,_ for help ever imagined. But now, four years later… _four…years_ …I'm having trouble feeling sorry for you anymore. I mean, if a person hits their head against a brick wall once, it's an accident. Twice and they're upset. Thrice, they're really pissed off. Four times, maybe they're, y'know, retarded or something. No fault of their own, they're just stupid. But when there's blood streaming down your face, and bone is starting to show…yah kinda have brought the pain on yourself. That was you, with your skull showing, four years ago. Now, you're passed out, but every time the medics revive you, you're sprinting for the damn wall again. But STILL. But still, I have put up with your bullshit up to **_HERE!_** He slammed his fist into the truck's roof, buckling up the metal and giving the truck a jolt. She remained unfazed.

"And now YOU, of alllll people, want to go around with some 'look at me, I'm so much more evolved and intelligent than you Earthling Dirt-People' attitude, and lecture ME about the finer points of empathy?! And the only reason you're still breathing today is because I showed _you_ empathy when you least deserved it…fuck on outta here with that shit. _Your_ city didn't get trashed. _Your_ life wasn't nearly ended at the ripe old age of twelve via death by robot. _Your_ town didn't have to bury two thousand, five hundred and sixty three people. _Your_ entire life wasn't flipped upside down, then left with no answers and a crushed heart. And despite all of this, I **_didn't_** kill you. It would have been too easy! I had Atomsk's full power, you didn't stand a chance. I would have been completely absolved too. Hell, Commander Amarao was ordering me, pleading and begging me, to off you! In the eyes of the I.I.B. and the Galaxy as a whole, I'd have been doing them a fuckin' favor. But, I… _didn't._ And _even still_ , there's more. Stand aside Billy Mays, there's fuckin' _more_ where that came from! After ALL of THAT even, I have allowed you back into my life, my house! I have sheltered you. I have fed you. I have clothed you!" His voice was rising. He knew his temper was getting away from him. He was also pretty sure the other drivers stuck in traffic were staring at him with rapt bewilderment. He also didn't care. Last time, at Hi-Way Pizza, the Scorpion had deployed and cut him short. Now his head, though filled with red, felt perfectly clear, and Haruko's bracelet link hadn't so much as twitched.

"So here's what I want to know! What could have _possibly_ happened that would give _YOU_ , the disavowed, the dishonored, the disgraced 'First Class Space Patrol Officer', if that's even really a thing at all, the FC-SPO Haruko Haruhara, _any, ANY_ standing, any right, to even think it's your place to be lecturing _ME_ about fucking empathy?! Not to mention your arrogant entitlement to treat everyone else like shit, like kicking Rig when he's down. Where do you get off, what doe-eyed, sob story are you gonna pull outta your ass to justify this moral high ground you've so conveniently found yourself Master and Commander of?! _Answer me that!_ Answer me that, and maybe, _just maybe_ , I'll reconsider whether or not I was the Chump of the Universe for letting you go."

Fuming, furious, his throat dry and heart hammering, he waited for an answer. Something, anything. What would it be? Her imagination was boundless and her scruples non-existent. Surely this would be a tall-tale for the ages. He was even willing to entertain her telling of it, just to laugh for having wasted her time.

"Okay…first of all." This…didn't sound anything like it was supposed to. "I don't recall anywhere signing up to deal with your temper tantrums. Second, we do agree on one thing, in that you were _incredibly_ stupid. If it'd been me in your place, I'd have smashed me outta orbit like a Barry Bonds homerun. But not all of us can be suckers like you. And third, and last, I'm done dealing with _your_ bullshit today. I'm out." She gathered up her guitar and turned to the door to get out. He had anticipated this. Before she grasped the door's lever, CLUNK. He set the locks on his door's panel.

"Like I said, you don't get out that easy. Answer the question."

"Piss off! Let me out, or I'm breaking the door."

"Fine, be that way." He put the truck in gear and drove up onto the curb, stopping with her door inches from a telephone pole. Now she could slam the door all she wanted, there was no way she was getting out through a door that only opened three inches. "I've got all day. Clyde's probably going to beg Rick to let him back in 'cause he's suffering from Big Mac withdrawals. So I can wait. Answer the question. What the hell happened that makes you such a damned empathy expert, and so, fuckin' high and mighty?"

"Let. Me. Out. NOW."

"Make. Me. I fuckin' dare yah." He now showed his own fangs and put on a show that was a lot more confident than he felt. "Answer my questions and you can talk a walk. Until then, we stay right the hell here. So I'll ask again. What's it…" _Chack! Chack! Chack!_ "THE FUCK do you want?!"

"Listen here Dipshit…" A Philipsburg Police Officer, now sufficiently agitated, had tapped on the truck's window with his nightstick. Naota felt the raging in his heart seize into a curdled ball of ice. "One more outburst like that and we're gonna have problems. The road's clear and you can't park up on the curb like this. So, get the fuck on outta here before I lose my good mood. _Yah got that_?"

"Y-yes Officer." Naota felt no desire to discover the policeman's idea of an unsunny disposition.

"Good. Hey, where're you going?!" Naota turned back to Haruko and found she'd rolled down her window and was already halfway out. She dropped to the sidewalk, picked up her waiting guitar, and set off at a brisk stroll without a look back. "Hey young lady, I'm talking to you! Stop!" The policeman left the truck's door and started after Haruko.

"Well…now what? Yah sure blew that, didn't you?" The intersection was indeed clear, the light changed and Clyde's car was moving. The policeman hadn't ordered him to stay, and he felt no inclination to do so willingly either. He had only a few seconds to decide. Stay on Clyde, on the mission at hand, or go after Haruko? After their exchange just then, the sour mood it had put him in, and the presence of a Philipsburg cop now jogging after Haruko, the decision didn't take long. He wasn't concerned about her getting arrested; he knew she was far too clever to let such a setback befall her.

"And all her stuff's at the shop and my house; she's not leaving town, let alone the county. Uhhhgghh…fuck it all…" He merged into traffic, then turned left to follow Clyde. She turned right, around the corner of The Philips Hotel and headed opposite from him. He looked to the rearview mirror in time to catch the flare of her neon green work shirt, and a flash of bubble-gum pink…and then she was gone.

. . .

All the while, The Man in Black leisurely breakfasted at The Philips' Hotel restaurant. His morning began by perusing the local Philipsburg Journal while working his way through two whole loaves, with masses of honey, butter, and clotted cream, and downing a quart of coffee. Now he had discovered _two_ delicacies of Earth. Bourbon in the evening to mellow his mood, and coffee in the morning as a shot of direct energy. For a while he had watched the men clearing the intersection and extracting the BMW from under the trailer. Seeing the issue was being resolved without further incident, he'd gotten bored and returned to his paper. As he folded pages to the Editorials, he caught a flash of pink on his peripheral. The Man froze, and reflexively reached for and opened his pocketwatch.

'And here I was, thinking today would be boring…' He scanned his pocketwatch's faces, checked the orbs circling the main face, and watched one of the hands rotate lazily, overshoot, and correct to settle on a distinct heading. It was not the one The Man had expected.

'Hm! That's unexpected, and early. But, if the time is right, it's right!' He pushed in his chair, gathered his fedora, coat, and case, and headed towards the side door. Along the way, he stopped one of the waitresses. "Excuse me Miss, but could you hold my table? I need to step outside for a moment. Oh, I'm expecting a friend to join me, so could you put out another loaf with that delicious honey, butter and cream; and a fresh pot of coffee as well?" He slipped a wad of bills into the waitress's apron pocket, and was given an acknowledging smile in return. "Thank you so very much, I'll be right…back." Outside, he hailed a bewildered Philipsburg Police Officer; the cop was scratching his head and turning in circles like he had lost something.

"Pardon me, Officer!" The Man gave a warm smile in greeting and was instantly recognized.

"Oh! G-good morning, Sir!" The policeman returned the smile and straightened his posture. "Can I be of assistance?"

"You most certainly can. Who were you looking for just now? Was it a young woman, with pink hair?" While The Man thought of them as easily corrupted, pliable and readily intimidated, Humans were capable of usefulness too. The Man in Black smiled, knowing this species would one day make _fine_ , upstanding citizens of The Red Star of The Solar Federation.

"Why yes Sir, as a matter of fact I was." The policeman pointed up the road. "I was directing a parked truck, and she climbed out the passenger window, then took off. That struck me as suspicious, so I followed her to here…but now she's gone."

"And, pray tell, was she carrying anything on her? Perhaps, a guitar?"

"That was the strangest part of all. She did have one, and a big one too; it had two necks on it." The policeman's brow furrowed in concern. "Is she…a threat or something? Should I call dispatch and put out a bulletin to pick her up?" He offered, his thumb on his radio's push-to-talk button.

"Oh goodness no, that won't be necessary. But your helpfulness is noted, and appreciated. I will look into this matter personally. Carry on with your duties Officer, and…please. Be at Peace."

"Yes Sir. If you ever need anything from the P.P.D., just give the word." The pair began to separate, then The Man's hand firmly clamped down on the policeman's shoulder. He began to turn, but found his feet had become welded to the sidewalk.

"One last thing Officer…" The Man in Black's smile widened. The policeman blinked as he felt an air, a sifting mist, seep into his mind. He couldn't see a fog, and the day was still bright and sunny. But the mental fog was busy blurring his thoughts and clouding over his memory. "Let's keep this conversation between yourself and I…or better still, let's pretend it never happened."

"…Pretend, what, never happened…Sir?" The charm wrought by The Man in Black had worked well.

"That's the spirit." The Man released the policeman, now just as confused as before, but now was wondering instead what he was doing a block from his patrol car. He shrugged and headed back for his car, away from The Man in Black.

'…I should, just in case.' The Man had his pocketwatch open again, and pressed his thumb to the smallest face; the one at the bottom of the main face, and closed his eyes. A blink of time later he reopened them, stowed his watch again in his waistcoat and carried on.

'Full discretion at my disposal…' The Man recalled the orders he'd been given, from The Head Director and Chief Officer of Medical Mechanica Industries himself! There was an option contained within that allotment of full discretion. It was one that had worked nine times out of ten when employed properly. By those odds, Haruko Haruhara was about to become just another statistic. 'Now Miss Haruhara…where, where-oh-where have you gone? Come now, don't be shy. It's just a little heart-to-heart talk…'

. . .

Plunge the shovel blade into the dirt and shale. Kick the blade in with foot. Lift shovel, pivot ninety degrees left and toss the shovelful into crater. Back to mountain of shale and dirt. Repeat ad infinitum. Well…actually, how long _is_ it going to take me to fill in this crater? While I'm stuck out here on the runway, might as well do a little math to pass the time. I know, I know. But different strokes for diff'rent folks.

My average time per shovelful, from plunge, to toss and back, is 5 seconds. 3600 seconds per hour, so 720 shovels per hour. Roughly, but that's assuming I don't get tired. I think I've been digging for an hour. Let's confirm that for sure though. Each shovelful is roughly one foot, by one foot, by one foot. One foot cubed, 720 cubic feet per hour; again assuming I have the stamina of an Iron Man competitor. Since I don't…

Start with y=m*x+b. My time per shovelful will increase at an increasing rate. That makes 'm' positive, and 'x' will be to a power less than 1. But, while I can't dig forever, I can still dig for quite a while, so 'm' will be low too…say, 0.1. I think a 0.1 second loss is fair, so 'x's' power is 0.1 as well. For 'b', it will obviously be equal to 5. That gives me: y=(0.1*(x^0.1))+5. Shoveling in 8-hour shifts is a standard day, so integrate the f(x) from 0 to 720, giving me...hang on…(((x^(21/10))/21)+(5*x)+C. Solve for 'C' and then the rest…let the vacuum tubes in my brain warm up, amuse yourselves for a moment…3,726.38 seconds; for 720 shovelfuls of dirt. That's just a tad over an hour, so about right! We have our model. But, how much dirt am I actually dealing with? All my petitions to have a "metric fuck-ton" be listed as an official unit of measurement have gone unanswered. So that's out.

From where I stand, the crater's roughly cone shaped, and the pile I'm looking at is roughly the same size. A cone's volume is V=pi*(r^2)*(h/3). For the limits of my grey and squishy upstairs processor, let's assume pi=3.14, and only 3.14. The crater's 60 yards, scratch, 180 feet, and 20 feet deep. With that, V=3.14*(90^2)*(20/3), and that comes to…1.7 E 5 cubic feet. One hundred seventy thousand cubic feet. Oof.

Plugging 1.7 E 5 back into the integral of f(x)=0.1*(x^0.1)+5, from 0 to 170,000 gives a total time of….go get a drink of water or use the john if you gotta, this'll take some time…...Recalculating. Please stand by. Recalculating…901,535 seconds. 901,535/3600=250.43 hours. Assuming those 8-hour shifts, 250.43/8= 31.3 days.

At this rate, it will literally take me a month, with NO exaggeration, to fill in this crater. And, I have _proved_ it with math! BOOM. On a surely unrelated note, it's a wonder why I'm still single. Oh well… Plunge the shovel blade into the dirt and shale. Kick the blade in with foot. Lift shovel, pivot ninety degrees left and toss the shovelful into crater. 721. Back to mountain of shale and dirt. Repeat ad infinitum.

'That's a truck engine.' I stopped, hearing the approach of Tommy's S-10. 'What do they want?'

"Hey Rig!" Tommy came to his usual brake-slamming stop; nearly tossing George into the windshield. "You feel like you've been punished long enough?"

"Tommy…ever wondered what it'd be like to be a Popsicle?"

"Not really…but I'll say that sounds like a yes! Hop in, we'll give you a lift back." Whatever we were going to do sure beat shoveling. I tossed the shovel into the bed, climbed in and sat on a wheel-well.

"What's up?" I asked through the little sliding panel on the back window.

"Sorry we didn't tell you earlier, but Agent Griggs is flying into Midstate today."

"What he means is…" George elaborated. "Agent Griggs is flying in right now. We're going to meet him. You'll follow us in the Kennworth, and put a box trailer on it. Make sure there's a box full of straps in it, and the latches on the doors are working." Agent Griggs flying into Midstate on such a short notice, and us needing a covered trailer only meant one thing. Our arms package had arrived.

To Arms! Take up your Rifle, your Pistol, and your Sword! Make ready to defend your family, your home, and your planet, from the Authoritarian Fist of The Red Star of The Solar Federation! Show to the Universe that not just our military or hired mercenaries will fight, but the very People themselves will refuse servitude. Such a display of defiance shall declare ourselves to have always been, and will be from today and forever, Free Men.

. . .

For a moment, Clyde thought he'd lost his nerve. His arms had become leaden, too heavy to move, his legs rubberized as weak knees pinned him in place, while sweaty palms smeared across the steering wheel.

'I knew I shouldn't've had leftover spaghetti for breakfast…' He wiped his mouth, concentrating on not letting his nerves make him vomit. 'What's it gonna be? Stand up once more and really show 'em who's boss…or go home and jack off like some bitch-boy coward?' He had arrived just as the employees were arriving to set up for the breakfast shift; and a delivery truck conveniently added extra bodies going in and out of the building. The best part was that the deliverymen weren't part of the usual faces. Their coming and going could help him blend in, but only if he went immediately. He grasped the small bags of powder in his hand, made his resolve, and started his mental three minute timer.

Clyde exited his car, striding purposefully towards the delivery truck.

"Need some help?" He asked one of the deliverymen, the one slinging boxes from the trailer.

"Always, here." The man thought Clyde a helpful McDonald's employee and handed him a tall stack of boxes; filled with sesame seed buns. Using the stack to cover most of his face, Clyde entered the back door and began looking for his first target. 30 seconds. To his right, there was the assembly line for food, and farther down were the fryers. To his left, the grill. Going on memory, and hoping he'd studied the correct plans, he went forward into the hallway with the freezer, storeroom, offices…where was it?!

"Hey, uh…Delivery Dude." One of the employees beckoned to him. "There's no space for those at the moment. One of your buddies knocked over a week's worth of ketchup; the shit's everywhere. Put 'em around the corner up there, next to the pop machine, until the room's cleaned up.

"Sure thing." That was easier than expected. 1 minute, 15 seconds. He hurried past the manager's office, turned the corner and came face to face with the back end of the soda fountain. Dropping the boxes, he searched for the carbonated water reservoir. It fed carbonated water into the machine and there it was mixed with syrups to make everything that came out with its taps. 1 minute, 30 seconds. Found it. He unscrewed the inspection cap, upended the first little bag into it, and resealed the reservoir. He exited the building and turned right, to the back of the lot where the employees parked. Rick's car was first in line. 2 minutes.

'Please be the first one…please be the first one…' He dug from his pocket a set of bump keys. His youngest brother Cody had given every Kauffman their own set for last Christmas. The first two were no good, but the third proved lucky. 2 minutes, 15 seconds. Clyde leaned into the car, opened the glovebox, tossed the second bag into it, then reclosed and relocked everything. 2 minutes, 45 seconds.

Back in his car, he realized he'd been holding his breath. With a calming whoosh he let it out. 3 minutes, exactly. Time to leave…well…maybe…He had a desire to wait around and watch the effects first-hand. Risking it though was a sure way to get caught, so he drove away. Cole would fill him in on all the gory details later; and there was sure to be news coverage; the talk of the town at least.

. . .

Midstate Airport was devoid of visitors that morning; not a single plane or car in sight. Excepting the lone groundskeeper/terminal officer/firefighter/fuel pumper/mechanic/manager that ran the place. Mr. Taero was a longtime family friend and 'wise to our schemes' as his described his relation to Overwatch. He'd conveniently decided on a mid-morning nap in his office (hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil) while Agent Griggs' plane lined up for final approach.

My specialty certainly isn't airplanes, but I did recognize this one. It was an _ancient_ C-123 Provider; former U.S. Coast Guard judging by the remaining blue, white and orange paint. But there was some paint that seemed fresh. _Somebody_ , had painted a World War II style Shark's Mouth across both sides its nose. Methinks the pilot knows not the definition of subtlety. Agent Griggs must've dug deep into the mothballs to find this one. More than likely it was unlisted, and _supposed_ to be retired in an Arizona boneyard. The pilot touched them down and back-taxied to us, spinning around so I could back the Kennworth right up to the cargo bay. Yes, that's how low-key Midstate is. You can literally drive right onto the runway. Makes an excellent drag strip for dirt bikes if you are ever bored on a hot summer evening.

"Good morning George, Thomas, Jeff too." Agent Griggs' voice had a hint of faintness to it. He must not be a fan of flying, and I envied his job even less. "Most everything I promised last time is here, all boxed up and ready for deployment."

"As glad as we are to see you…" George was hung up on that 'most' word, as were the rest of us. "What do you mean by 'most'? We didn't get screwed by the Bean Counters and red tape again; did we?"

"Yes, and no. It'll be easier to show you." Agent Griggs turned to lead us to the plane, just as the pilot stepped off the cargo ramp. "Ohhh…right. You. Ah, impromptu family reunion! I believe you four know each other?"

"Know 'em?! Sure's can be Ah do, Mister Griggs! These're them fer sure, Tha Carson Boys of Osceola Mills!" The pilot strode over, clomping in his own pair of steel-toed boots, and smiling in an ear-to-ear grin. He shook each of our hands in a rattling manner that threatened to separate our arms from our shoulders, and even lifted both my feet off the ground! "George, yer lookin' swell, Rita behavin' herself? Tommy, yah mad-man, how the hell are yah?! An'…you…prob'bly don' remember me, 'cause Ah hardly rec'gnize yah. Lookit you though, Cousin Jeff's ah proper man now."

"I don't recall _meeting_ you, but I do know _of_ you." I explained, remembering the scant tales I'd been told of our mysterious Michigander cousin: Country. "Tommy and George have let slip a few interesting things here and there."

"What've y'all bin tellin' him? Puttin' ideas into his mind?" Country laughed, cheerily accusing George and Tommy of giving away his secrets. "Nothin' too incriminatin' Ah hope. Those stories are mine to tell, make sure they get told properly. Ah can't blame yah Jeff, you was only 'bout…three, when we last met. Tha' was when Ah'd jest got back from mah world tour. But man-oh-man how you've grown up since then. Yer gonna be closin' in on me some day."

"I doubt it, but I can always dream." See, I'm 5'-10", with good shoes, and 165 pounds. Tommy's 'bout the same height, little heavier. George's 'bout 5'-8" and 'round 200-210. Country, on the other hand, is 6 foot, freakin' 4 inches, and easily…240 pounds. Mentally scale the four of us in your head. 5'-10" and 165…versus 6'-4" and 240. I don't know _what_ is in Michigan's water, if Country grew up near a nuclear plant, but he got a double dose of whatever it was. Country's parents had moved out to Michigan in the early 1970's two months after he was born. The rest of his side of the family followed years later to join them. That side were the ones that had gone after my Grandad's accident. Yep, that means Country's Grandfather, and my Grandfather, were brothers. See the connection?

But despite his height and the full beard that made him seem larger _still_ , he was definitely related, especially sharing our family signature curl of hair that stuck out from under his baseball cap.

"Oh, pardon me. Wadn' talkin' 'bout yer growin' up in height buddy." Country clapped my shoulder and steered us to the plane. "But let's not have Mister Griggs an' his boys do all tha' heavy liftin'. We'll git all this moved first." It took a good half hour to transfer everything from plane to truck. Agent Griggs had us set aside a few sample crates so we could have a look at what we were getting. Six in all were laid out and Tommy offered his Attitude Adjuster to open them. The first was boldly stamped:

 **AVTOMAT KALASHNIKOVA 7.62X39MM IZHMASH**

Inside were ten factory-fresh AK-47's with beautiful orange-red wooden furniture. The craftsmanship was marred by the fact they were all still smothered in Cosmoline.

"If yah don' mind, Ah'd like to look at one?" Country asked and no one objected. "There's AK's, then AK's…then there's… _AK's;_ an' Ah've had tha pleasure an' misfortune to shoot all three." He selected one and set it atop the next crate. "Let's take ah peek under yer hood…" As an AK operator myself, I could tell by how he field stripped that rifle, he could probably do it blindfolded; maybe even had a few times. "Hummm…Mister Griggs, yer too good to mah cousins here. Brand new Izhmash rifles, from tha Izhevsk Mechanical Plant…an' with ah unique serial number run too. Interestin'. Ah see our Golfer-in-Chief's arms embargo on Russian made weapons didn' slow you down in tha least." Country reassembled the gun, gave it a function check, and once satisfied it would do for his family, returned it to the crate. "Very nice. What else yah got?"

The next four crates revealed the Remington 870 shotguns, (configured in a Vietnam-era U.S.M.C. style, complete with barrel shrouds, extended magazines, bayonet and all) a single M82A1 Barrett, (each Barrett rifle came in its own crate) a series of crates-in-a-crate with each smaller box crammed with several P90 pistols, and then the Remington 700's in a Plain Jane M40 style. All were in excellent shape, either appearing factory-fresh and never fired, or lightly used at most. Then there was Crate Six. Tommy pried it open and we crowded around to see.

"Rig, Country…" George adjusted his bifocals. "You two are the gun nuts of the family. What…is that?" As an answer, Country turned to Agent Griggs and exclaimed:

"Mister Griggs…this's ah Pah-tay-tah Digger!" He looked back at the 121-year old gun, and back to Agent Griggs. "First off…where'd yah _find one_ , let alone findin' **_five_**? An' secon'…it's, it's ah Pah-tay-tah Digger sir! It belongs in ah museum!"

"That's what they would let me have, I'm sorry." Agent Griggs apologized with a resigned shrug of his shoulders. "There were supposed to be four M1919A1's but those were gone by the time I got there. If it's any consolation, they're in perfect condition, never fired besides the testing rounds at Colt's factory." He added as Country and I lifted the 35-pound, 41-inch long antique and mounted it on its field tripod. "As long as you make sure not to overheat it, it'll shoot just as well as any other light machine gun."

"How's the damn thing work?" George asked before Tommy could stop him. Before my gun-nerd could get spun up, Country stepped right on in.

"Mister John, Moses, Browning, tha certified genius an' madman tha' he was, 'cided one day he wanted to take ah cowboy's lever gun an' make that sum'bitch fully automatic. But to do it, he put tha lever part on tha _front_ of tha gun, 'cause he was ah genius, _an'_ , 'cause he was ah mad-man, put it on ass-backwards. This's how it works. When yah fire, gas pushes down on this lever under tha barrel, kickin' it 'gainst this lever here." Country manipulated the gun to show its operation. The long lever dropped down and swung in almost a 180 degree arc. "Which would push this rod here, which rotated ah cam to pull tha ammo belt through, an' pushed tha bolt back to kick out tha old round an' bring up tha new one to start all over. Purdy good design, similar to any piston driven machine gun today. There jest ain't too many 'round is why Ah'm surprised. But it'll do four hun'red an' fiddy rounds of…looks like thirty-ought-six, ah minute; which's nothin' to sneeze at. 'Specially if yer downrange of it!"

"I'm sure I'll regret asking…" George stated, then went right on ahead and asked anyway. "How do you know all this?"

"Tha's easy, Ah own one; 'mongst ah few other toys Ah brought home off tha record. What tha ATF don' know won' hurt 'em. It ain' tha M1919A1 ah good friend of mine has; she's burned out…two, three barrels since Ah gave it to her. But this one'll sure's Hell go bang on ah consistent basis."

"But why Potato Digger?"

"'Cause on this little tripod here, if yah've got tha gun in too low of ah position, tha lever will dig ah little trench into tha ground; an' throw half tha' dirt back at'cha too fer good measure."

"Its _proper name_ …" Agent Griggs interrupted. "Is the M1895 Colt-Browning Machine Gun. But 'Potato Digger' works too, I guess."

"I consider myself a practical guy…" Tommy took up a shooters position behind the Digger's sights. Yes, that'll be what I'm calling them from now on. Lot's easier than 'M1895 Colt-Browning' and even shorter still than 'Potato Digger'. I'll use 'Digger' 'cause it 'digs' the graves of our enemies; literally and metaphorically. Oh come on, that was punny. "So I don't care if it's called 'The Unicorn Farter 5,000'. If it can kill Medical Mechanica Marines, then I'm happy. We'll take 'em."

After we repacked and stowed the crates in the trailer, George, Tommy, Agent Griggs and his squad, all got to chatting. Country however, waved for me to follow him into the plane's cargo hold.

"May ah please see it, what yer carryin'? He sat down on a fold-out seat, one of several along each wall.

"Huh? What do you…?"

"Tha gun yer carryin' at tha small of yer back in an IWB cross-draw holster." How he had known it was there is a mystery to me yet. I had walked in front of State Troopers with my gun on and never been caught once. "Here, if it makes yah feel better." He opened his jacket to reveal a shoulder holster under his left arm, securing a large revolver.

"Smith an' Wesson Model Twenty-Eight. Used to carry it on mah belt, open carry. But in this part of tha world, people'll look at'cha funny if yer carryin' like tha' an' not ah cop. So it's in ah shoulder rig now…oh well…" He shook out its shells and passed it to me. Compared to my GP100, the Model 28 was a behemoth. Country had the larger wooden target grips instead of the slimmer standard ones, a little bluing was nicked here and there, and there was some wear at the muzzle. The pistol had been taken care of in a reverent manner, but also had experienced heavy use and fired _tens of thousands_ of rounds. With all its characteristics and features, it pointed naturally, was heavy enough to negate most of its recoil, the trigger pull on single and even double action wasn't bad, it had the target grips and excellent sights…it fit him perfectly. Most interesting was stamped on the six-inch barrel: '0.357 Magnum Cartridge' and…

"Is this really one?"

"Highway Patrolman. What they _used_ to give tha Pennsylvania State Troopers; when they really did protect an' serve." He explained. "But now they're all 'bout Glocks, XD's an' this polymer revolution…an' tha protect an' serve's gone by tha way-side…"

"It's a beautiful gun Country. You should be proud to own and carry it."

"An' it has saved mah life, an' others, 'least ah dozen times. But those're neither here nor there." He accepted it back, reloaded it and stowed the old Highway Patrolman back under his arm. I wasn't too sure about his claim that his Highway Patrolman had save his life; that may have been just to impress me. "So lemme see whatcha got." I drew my Ruger, shook out its shells and slowly turned it over. He took it gently, sensing it held a special importance to me.

"Well, yah've got good sense buck-ah-roo. Ruger GP100…four-inch barrel…all dressed up in stainless steel…yah put on tha rubber hogue grips, nice. Three fiddy seven magnum, ah real smart man's cartridge if Ah do say so mahself…" He snapped the cylinder closed, turned it over in his hands, and then in a blink, threw it up into a shooting position. "Tha new wheelguns Ruger's comin' out with these days are built good 'n' proper. This's ah pistol you can cut down ah tree with jest by swingin' it by tha grips!" He returned it, and I reloaded and reholstered it just as he had his. "Now…yah've probably guessed Ah didn' bring yah over here to talk sidearm preferences."

"About as much, yeah." I hardly knew Country beyond a grainy sketch. He had been heavily involved in the Militia Movement in the 1990's, and in his home state of Michigan they had been exceptionally proactive. For reasons unknown to me, he fled the United States around 1996-1997, and dropped off the face of the Earth for roughly seven years. Given the scarce nature of the stories I'd heard about him, I suspect whatever he had done abroad was either immensely secretive, impressively illegal, or a combination of both. But if he was trusted enough by Agent Griggs to be his pilot, was at least privy to the existence of Overwatch, and didn't seem to bother George or Tommy in the least, then I could trust him too. "What's on your mind?"

"Some words of wisdom, and advice, if you'll have it." He relaxed in his seat and took off his mirrored aviators. I was struck by seeing the rest of his face, and especially his eyes. While mine are brown, and George and Tommy's a deep, dark blue, Country's were a _vibrant_ hazel. While flecks of grey were appearing in his beard, mustache and hair, those eyes maintained a youthful inquisitiveness, omnipotent observation and enough adventure for ten, all of that defying his age. There was also something else I can't describe, but I no longer had any doubts that the Highway Patrolman he was carrying had tasted blood; and quite a lot of blood too. It suddenly occurred to me I'd damn well better listen to what he had to say.

"It's 'long the lines Ah gave to ah very good friend; he's actually tha Godfather of mah children now. We'd jest gotten through ah very nasty spot, durin' which he'd killed someone while mannin' ah machine gun. Mah friend had never killed anyone in his life. He'd never served in tha military, wasn' ah merc, ah cop, never hunted, never'd owned or even _fired_ ah gun. He'd bin ah paper-pusher, yah know, desk-jockey, 'fore Ah met him. So naturally he's all broken up 'bout killin' this guy, shakin' an' shiverin', mumblin' an' turnin' green…total shock. He was even goin' on how he'd sworn to NEVER, kill anyone. So, Ah 'xplained it to him like this:

'Look, Rock. We was all 'bout nicknames in tha nineties yah see. Anyway. Look, Rock. Just 'cause yah shoot someone don' mean yah have to like it. Ah'd be more worried if yah shot someone an' _didn'_ have ah problem. Pullin' ah trigger's physically easy to do, livin' with it's 'nother thang. But it's easier when yah've got ah good, honest an' just reason to do so. Defendin' Life, Liberty, Tha Pursuit of Happiness an' Tha Bill of Rights were mine…'least when Ah was in tha militia. Now, it's defendin' y'all.' Tha' would've been tha others Ah worked for at tha time. An' Ah asked him what were his reasons? Figger them out an' life gits easier. What're you fightin' for, what purpose in life is worth it?"

"…That's a good way of looking at it." I agreed after digesting the words. But I thought the advice didn't quite fit for me. I _knew_ , heart an' soul, what I, we, Overwatch, were going to fight for. Life, Liberty, The Pursuit of Happiness and The Bill of Rights compared to the perpetual enslavement under Medical Mechanica certainly were high on the list. I did not doubt Country's sincerity, but maybe his choice of audience. "But your message is wasted on me. I don't have any…"

"Tha' hunk of advice wasn' fer you." Okay…now I'm really confused. "Ah gave you tha' little spiel so when tha time comes, you can pass it on to whoever does need to hear it."

"Do you think I'll have to pass it on?"

"Cuzzin' Jeff, Ah don' think you will. Ah KNOW, you will."

"I mean no offense, but how?"

"Simple. Y'all jest loaded up 'nough guns, ammunition, grenades, explosives, knives, tools, gear an' 'quipment to start, sustain, an' WIN ah small war. Or what Ah, once upon ah time, called: Tuesday. Ah'm not sure 'xactly what yer up to. Ah have good faith it's ah good, just cause. But, there's gonna be people in this, struggle, yer headed t'wards, who ain't gonna wanna be there; or even involved at all. They're gonna have no choice though, 'cause of tha lot Life has cast 'em. So they're gonna haftah find ah way to git through, ah way to logic an' reason, justify, what they gotta do to make it through an' survive. Hopefully with their mental faculties an' sanity intact too. Now…all tha' said, next bit's fer you."

"You have my undivided attention."

"Ah'm gonna preface this by sayin' it's less of advice, an' more've ah warnin'." Now he sat fully upright and leaned forward. Even sitting down he was nearly as tall as me, and locked eyes to make sure I got his message.

"Ah toldja 'bout Rock, an' now yer gonna hear 'bout ah woman, tha one Rock's now married to. Her name…is Revy. Long 'fore Rock met her, an' even by tha time Ah came into tha picture, Mizz Revy had…let's jest say she had Troubles. One of those Troubles was Mizz Revy's attitude t'wards killin' people. From what Ah've gathered, she first killed only to keep breathin'; self-defense. Then it was survival, day to day existence. Then, she figgered out not only how to kill fer ah livin', but was damned good at it; an' made it her business to git better at it still. With all tha practice she got, she kinda started to take ah likin' to killin'. An' finally, by tha time Rock came into her life, Mizz Revy had gone right past likin' to kill, blowin' people away. _Killin' people had become tha only thang she knew how to do._ "

"So…what happened?" I anxiously awaited for what came next. "She, I assume, got better, or something…right?"

"Took ah long time, lots ah screamin', kickin'…bitin' an' clawin'…effort an' ah huge heap of patient love, but she did. It was so hard 'cause she'd forgotten how to be ah Human Bein' an' had to relearn from square one. An' there's mah warnin': Do. Not. Do not forget, yer Humanity. Whenever this fight of yours comes to pass, yer gonna see all kinds of awful, terrible an' horribly unspeakable things. Yer gonna see otherwise decent people doin', all kinds of awful, terrible an' horribly unspeakable things. An' Ah promise yer gonna DO, all kinds of awful, terrible an' horribly unspeakable things. Such's tha nature of it, Nature of War. It's unavoidable. Tha only nice War is tha' little card game Ah played as ah kid."

"So how do I do that, but not risk losing?"

"Oh, don' git me wrong! Fight to win, obviously! Don' be some kinda virtue signalin', empty-headed Liberal, sayin' stupid shit like 'If yah kill yer enemies, they win.' If yah've got gasoline an' Styrofoam, make napalm an' USE IT. Dump it down tha bunker vents an' burn 'em out. If yah've got ammonium nitrate, powdered aluminum, an' nitromethane, mix tha' stuff together into ANFO, an' then USE IT. Yer enemy barricaded himself in ah buildin' an' even God himself won't git tha bastard out? Blow tha building an' bury tha stubborn bastard in it. If yah've got artillery on hand, be sure to fire fer effect 'till tha guns turn red; 'specially if yah git ahold of some white phosphorous; Willy Peter is one _mean_ sum-bitch, Ah'll tell yah. Use bayonets, knives with sawback blades, hatchets, clubs, tomahawks, axes, picks, shovels, whatever it takes to make sure yer enemy gits tha message through his helmet an' thick skull too. Shoot hollowpoints, frangible an' even tracer, incendiary an' 'xplosive rounds if yah got 'em. Always shoot tha officers or head honchos first. Ambush 'em when they're walkin' to their mailbox, in tha middle of tha night 'round tha clock so they'll never sleep. Steal everythan' yah can from yer enemy an' destroy, break, an' otherwise ruin anythang yah can't run off with. Exploit his weaknesses, never let ah good opportunity pass you by…but never forget how to be Human. Ah know how contradictory it sounds, an' it's ah bit of mental gymnastics to 'xplain this to yah. It'll be somethin' you define fer yerself an' self-regulate. Uh, examples. Leave civilians alone. If yah take pris'ners, take tha time to treat 'em decent as is prudent. Don' kick yer enemy when he's down an' utterly defeated an' defenseless. Respect 'em. The first huge battle Ah ever fought in, we went up 'gainst two-thousand mercenaries; two-to-one odds. An' we kicked tha ever lovin' shit outta them. Know what we did when we had 'em cornered, with their backs literally at tha ocean, half of 'em dead, another quarter or so wounded? Keep in mind, they were fixin' to raze our town to tha ground an' kill everyone an' everythang inside tha city limits."

"What?"

"We let 'em go! There was no point in killin' tha rest of 'em. They were jest mercs, paid soldiers. We beat 'em fair 'n' square after they put up one damn good fight, but there was no sense, no justification to execute 'em all. So we helped 'em clean up, bury their dead an' once tha' was done, told 'em to git lost. Always try to give 'em ah way out, chance to change their minds. If they wanna surrender an' call tha whole fight quits, let 'em. An enemy tha' don' wanna fight you, ain't one. So there's mah warnin'. Ah've seen, an' done, some've those awful, terrible an' horribly unspeakable thangs, witnessed lots of others do tha same…an' yer gonna be next. But do not, you cannot, let them, tha thangs you do, control you, way-lay you, become, consume you. Tha's what almost happened to Mizz Revy, an' Ah don' want you to haftah go through what she did. Ah saw jest ah small part of her sufferin', but it was 'nough fer me. Now, last little bit. Tha' sayin' Ah mentioned earlier, 'bout killin' yer enemies, really ought to have three parts:

\- If yer enemy kills you, don' matter how, an' even if yer hands are still unbloodied an' 'pure'…you lose an' he wins.

\- If you kill yer enemy an' keep yer humanity more or less intact, he loses an' you win.

\- If you kill yer enemy, an' in doin' so destroy yer humanity, yer soul, to where all yah know is Death…then both of y'all have lost.'"

. . .

"Good morning and welcome to McDonald's. What can I get you today?"

"I'll have…a Number Two, with an extra hashbrown, throw in a bacon, egg and cheese biscuit, and I'll just have a large pop instead of the OJ or coffee. Please and thank you."

"Certainly sir." The first man in line paid for his food, filled his cup with Coca-Cola and sat down to eat. As he chewed, he watched two kids fill their own cups from the fountain. They were doing what he used to at that age, mixing Coca-Cola and lemonade, and Root Beer with Dr. Pepper. The rest of the breakfast crowd shuffled through, while commuters snagged a quick bite from the drive-thru window. Biting into a hashbrown, the man turned his attention to the lobby television.

"…And now an update from our nation-wide reporting team. Today we're hearing from Trent, in Indiana. Trent, what's going on in America's Crossroads?"

"That's the question everyone's asking, Carol. Authorities of the South Bend Police, their CSI team, and the Rail Commission, are still investigating the now two week old incident that occurred at the South Bend switching yards. The cremated remains of a young adult male had been found here by a morning shift worker, but since the incident is believed to have occurred at four or five in the morning, there were no witnesses of the actual event."

"Do they have any leads on the identity of the victim?"

"Not yet. All distinguishing characteristics such as fingerprints, facial features, or tattoos if he had any, have been burned away. This also includes the contents of his wallet. So the police have no driver's license, photo ID, credit cards, or anything like that. The head of the forensic team for this investigation has stated his team will attempt 'to match the man's teeth to known dental records'. This appears to be their only option at this point…"

The man didn't get to hear the rest of the report. A debilitating wave of pain slammed into him, and it felt like he'd been stabbed in the heart. He clutched at his chest as the pain worsened, coloring his vision with dots. The table rose up to meet him as he collapsed, then tumbled to the floor. It seemed he wasn't the only one, all around patrons dropped with sickening thuds while they too gasped in pain. He couldn't turn his head, his eyes were locked forward and breathing was becoming difficult. However, his vision and ears still worked.

Helplessly he watched the two children at the soda fountain. The boy, no older than 7, ran to his mother. She had already doubled over before her son began screaming there were 'needles' in his stomach. His sister began bawling in embarrassment and her own pain as she vomited, the wet splats of puke sounding off the tiles. The man watched the children cling to their mother as she began convulsing in a seizure, and then they succumbed to their own tremors.

The man tried forcing himself to move, but his body wouldn't respond. If only he could force himself to weep for the children dying in front of him, that would have been better than being able to do nothing. As his lungs burned for air and heart labored to pump, it occurred to him to wonder who, or better, why, this had befallen him. Was it terrorism? Some criminal act, a psychopath's doing, a new serial killer? In the end, to him at least, it didn't really matter who or why. At least he had seen his children off before he'd left cross-country on business, and they knew Daddy loved them. He wished he could have told them one last time, but as his heart finally seized and his vision went dark, it was not meant to be.

. . .

It had been one of the strangest things Naota had seen Clyde do; that wasn't saying a lot since Clyde never really did much of anything. But this really broke the pattern. He'd taken some boxes from the delivery truck, gone inside via the employee entrance, came back out and unlocked a car that wasn't his, fumbled around for something in it, then got back into his own car…and drove off. He didn't even stop inside the McDonald's to order anything. Naota had captured it all with the Polaroid, making sure the shots showed irrefutably Clyde's face. But now Naota had two people to watch for: Clyde and Haruko.

"Can't imagine where she'd go…" He tried to guess at her potential actions or any destination she'd have in mind. "But trying to read her mind…I'd have better luck counting grains of sand on the beach. She probably went home and is sulking on her bed. Wonder what she's gonna say to weasel out of this one?" All the grumbling wasn't helping his mood, but talking out the frustration at least gave the illusion of helping. It was tempting to cry and shout 'it's not fair', but that kind of whining was for kids. Instead, he settled on…one-sided. That sounded more mature. It was one-sided that he still hadn't made any progress on how Haruko ticked. She knew him, for the most part, front and back; better so concerning his N.O. channel. Perhaps that was just how it was always going to be? No…no, that was unacceptable. But he had learned a shortcut to winding her up tighter than a two-dollar watch…and that was more than he'd started the day with. So that was something goin' for him, which was nice.

"Still…probably should call Rig and let him know she's gotten lose. Heh, gotten lose, that makes her sound like a pet cat. But if Rig, or any Carson for that matter, is out driving and not looking out for Haruko…well, there might be an accident. It'd be a real shame if _Haruko_ got run over with a dirtbike instead of me for a change…oh, what a tragedy that would be…holy shit! Where're they going?!" Two P.P.D. cruisers rocketed by, lights and sirens blaring. They were headed from where he'd just come; back to the mall. Checking his mirrors, he saw them turn off into the mall's parking lot. "Must be a 'buy one, get one free' special on doughnuts at the Bilo…" He reached for his phone to call Rig, but the phone began buzzing in his hand. Rig had beaten him to it.

. . .

The morning had put the three of us in a right jolly mood as we headed back home. Tommy and I were in the S-10 while George had taken charge of the Kennworth. It was after all, crammed full of ordnance. Before he and Agent Griggs had flown off, Country had invited us all down to his home in Virginia 'fer Christmas if yah need to make an 'xcuse; but y'all are welcome anytime. Frederica loves any reason to have parties, an' both Hansel an' Gretel'll be home durin' tha holidays so you can meet them too.' So I also had that to look forward to, which was awesome. Agent Griggs had pulled me aside to ask if Country's surname was Carson too, and I told him it wasn't; he was on the other side of the family. When Agent Griggs pressed me for what his name was then, I reminded him he knew 'damned good 'n' well' if Country hadn't told him, then I certainly had no business doing so.

When we hit the northern Philipsburg city limit, everything seemed to hit fast-forward. First, the police scanner on the S-10's dash lit off like the South Central Riots had come to town.

"Philipsburg Dispatch to all units. 10-35 in progress at US-322. Code 102, possibility of Code 104. Send E.M.S., Fire and all available units. 10-39 is in effect. Dispatch out."

"Holy shit Rig, my hearing must be going out…" Tommy checked the scanner to ensure it was working properly. "Did I just hear that?"

"A 10-35, major crime alert. US-322 is the P.P.D.'s word for the McDonald's. Code 102…is, mass casualty. Code 104 is _Hazmat_ …and 10-39 is to use your lights and sirens." I translated the P.P.D.'s codes as another bulletin came in.

"Philipsburg to all units responding to 10-35 at US-322. On-scene reports multiple 10-50VA. Follow-up response to set up for 10-58. Dispatch out."

"And now multiple vehicle accidents, enough they're having guys reroute traffic. I sure hope my hearing's bad too, this broadcast started off bad and sounds like it's getting worse." I wondered if Naota and Haruko had seen anything and decided to call them up. After all, Clyde had been kicked out of US-322, the McDonalds, not even 24-hours prior. I dialed for Naota and he picked up like he'd been waiting with his thumb on the TALK button.

"Hey Rig, you're near a police scanner right?" Full of questions aren't we? My day is going fine by the way. "What's going on?"

"Morning to you too. Yeah, I am. Something nasty down at McDonalds; the P.P.D. is sending all units. Did you see anything?"

"I'm afraid I did. I watched Clyde sneak in and out just before it opened. He pretended to be one of the delivery guys; then he put something in someone's car. Hey…you don't think…?"

"What's Haruko's take? Ah'm not hearin' her chime in, am I not on speaker?"

"Well, uh, you see…about that." …Naota. No…

" _What_ …about her, Naota? Pray tell?" Please no…

"She's…not here at the moment." _No, no…_

"Then go get her, and put her on." _No, no, no…_

"…I can't." **NO. NO. NOOO…**

"Naota. I'm going to ask what hopefully is a stupid question, but…WHY NOT?"

"I…I…lost her?"

"YOU WHAT?"

"Well goddamn it Rig, it's not like I keep her on a collar and leash!" Yah know what, that's fair… ** _kinky_** …but fair. "We got into an argument this morning, she got pissed, and left. Saw her last at The Philips."

"Eeeuuughhhh…shit. The Philips House eh? Alright, uh, stand by." I looked over at Tommy, held up my hands and gave him my best 'Help me out here!' face. He countered with his own 'The hell do you want me to do?!' look. Thanks Cuzz. "Hey, you're still on Clyde, right?"

"Uh-huh, like a bad habit." At least we got that goin' for us…which is nice.

"Stay that way then. I'll make some calls, see if anyone's seen the Pink-Haired Wonder around." As bad as Haruko wandering around unsupervised, I wasn't immediately worried about her causing trouble. She was prob'bly lazin' around somewhere with a bad attitude. I remembered all her stuff was still at Naota's, and her Vespa was at the shop. She wasn't going anywhere fast or soon. It was just nerve-wracking to be imagining what she _could_ be up to…especially with a Man in Black on the prowl, the Kauffman's out 'n' about, and the cops running like headless chickens. See, fast-forward. So Rig, how did things go to shit? Well, very slowly…and then all at once. "Hell, she's prob'bly back at your place already; havin' herself a second breakfast."

"True, that sounds like her. Sorry about losing track of her, I should've known better."

"It happens to the best of us, don't feel bad. You said she likes to wind people up for fun. It was just your turn…huh?" A new call was coming in. I recognized it as Rick's number; McDonald's managerial maestro. He was part of our observation network, feeding us information on passing through troublemakers. A restaurant is a perfect spot to see who is coming and going in a town. He wasn't calling just to say hello. "Hey Nao', I got another call I have to take. Keep on what you're doing, I'll let you know what I find."

"Will do. Later." He hung up and I switched over to Rick.

"This's Rig. Talk to me Rick, are you okay? What's going on?"

"Oh, oh Jesus Christ, I…I wish I could tell you…" Rick sounded a shade of pale shy of a panic attack. "We, we opened for breakfast, got the morning delivery…oh, oh God, people just started dropping! Then there were some from the drive-thru that drove out into traffic and crashed. It's like some disaster movie thing or something!"

"I heard as much on the scanner, are you okay though? You're not feeling woozy or anything?"

"No, nah, nah, I'm fine…I just…fuck! Do I sound okay?! Sorry, sorry…just…oh God…" I was at a loss of anything to say. It was priority to find out the who-dun-it and so on, but it almost felt wrong to dump those questions on Rick when his world had flipped upside down. I still had to try though.

"Any idea who or what caused, whatever it was?"

"Take…a wild, fuckin' guess! I got no proof, I'll have to check the security footage before the cops confiscate it; thank God for remote back-ups. Don't want them deleting the film…ah, excuse me? Can I help you?" Someone was butting in on our talk. "Ex…excuse me Officer! You're, you're _what?!_ Now just, hang on now, I'm being arrested?! For what, on what grounds, on what charges?!" Well, the cops definitely aren't wasting time. No, don't worry about the casualties. Immediately look around for a patsy to blame; where's the nearest convenient fall-guy? Dickheads… "Oh what the hell, that's not…when did I give you permission to search my car? Get away from my car, I DO NOT give you permission to search it. Huh? No! No that's not mine! Where did you…HEY! Don't touch, hey! Hey, let me go…let me-crummdpshdssdasdhhhhh…beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeppp…click. We're sorry, but your call has been suddenly disconnected. Please…"

"George, this is Tommy, come-back?" Tommy picked up the CB.

"Tommy, this is George, come-on." After prefacing with 'where do I even begin?' Tommy relayed to George all that had just transpired.

"Sounds like something Clyde would do, eh?" Tommy asked after concluding and George stopped swearing. "What with historical precedent?"

"Yeeep. Sad to say this isn't the first time…"

"I'm gonna need some context please." I asked.

"Oh, right. 'Bout, twelve years ago, there was The Exlax Affair at the elementary school." George explained, but with a voice that sounded like he was being forced to describe, with detail, a dog getting hit by a truck. "You've never heard of it 'cause the school board's kept it all very hush-hush. There was this gang of girls about a grade or two above Clyde, who liked to bully the kid; just tortured the hell outta him. The worst day was when they corned him in the bathroom at recess, and that was when camera phones had just come out…you can guess at the messed up shit they took pictures of. Kids can be the worst, or best, I guess, sadists. Young girls especially, at least a boy will just punch you and be done… Not only did they take pictures of Clyde, but they also thought it'd be really funny to share them with all their friends. You know how stuff like that is viral, all it takes is one broken promise of 'now don't show it to anyone else', and then everyone knows. The school didn't want what should've been a sexual assault case on their hands, so they tried to smooth the whole thing over and no one really got punished…and Clyde took exception with that."

"So with exception, came Exlax?"

"Yep. One day he somehow, no one could figure out how, got enough Exlax to clear out a clogged New York City sewer line, into their tomato soups at lunch. They all had to be rushed to the hospital, one had an allergic reaction that made her intestines lock up…while still having explosive shits. Clyde got kicked outta school for a while; they even sent him to some psych place. I don't think it did a lick of good though, he's been messed up ever since. Becoming a pariah at school didn't help much either…"

"That whole story was fucked up from start to finish…" It still did not excuse Clyde in the least if he was responsible, don't think that for a minute. But it sure did provide some background as to why he had done what he did. "So, history repeating itself then?"

"Seems like it; except now he's framed Rick for it…" George drifted off and we sat at the light with the CB on dead air. Each of us was waiting for the other to speak. I think it was because how everything had flipped so totally and so quickly. We had been at a sudden high point from the airport, and now all that ground had dropped from under us. There was also the feeling, at least to my own bias, that we had dilly-dallied too long, _yet again_ ; and now _civilians_ were paying for it.

"George, orders?" Tommy called on the CB and heard no response. " _Major_ Carson! I need orders, sir!"

"Yes, _Captain_ , Carson, I heard you the first time." George reminded us that even though we're family, Overwatch still has a rank and command structure. He took a deep breath to settle himself before going on. "Tommy, Jeff. I will bring the truck home and store it. You are to proceed to Clyde Kauffman's location, relieve Naota of his duties, and put a stop to this bullshit. Am I clear?"

"Crystal." Tommy turned left onto Water Street while George continued across the Red Moshannon into Chester Hill. "That's a big 10-4, over and out."

"God's Speed, out."

"Rig, check yourself lest you wreck yourself." We pulled off behind Centre Bearings and used their wall of stacked delivery pallets for privacy. I drew my gun, checked its cylinder, reholstered it, and patted my belt to ensure my three spare speedloaders were in place. Tommy made a double check as well, his everyday carry was a Generation 4 Glock 21 in 0.45ACP. Both of our personal sidearms had the feature of 'draw-bang'. They had no external safeties to flip or push off. Glock pistols only have a trigger safety, so to fire you just pull the trigger. Revolvers are similar, but without even the trigger safety. The double-action trigger pull is harder than thumbing back the hammer first, then firing. It was a small thing, no safety, but it gave us just the smallest edge when drawing and firing under stress.

"I am all set over here." Tommy nodded that he was too and gave an impromptu briefing.

"Remember that your sidearm is an _absolute_ , last-ditch, every, and all other options have been tried and exhausted. Do I make myself _abundantly_ _clear_?"

"Yes."

"Do not draw it, do not flash it, do not touch it, do not stand with your hand on the grip, do not even put your hand anywhere near your gun. We will not be holding anyone at gunpoint. If you draw, that means you are going to shoot, and are dammed well prepared to suffer any and all consequences. Am I still being abundantly clear?"

"Yes."

"Good…good…" Satisfied, Tommy turned us back onto the road. I blinked and we were entering Water Street Mobile Homes. "I will do the talking, unless I ask you to elaborate on some detail. Do not try to ab-lib or improv, okay? Just stand ready and…try to look intimidating."

"No promises, I'll see what I can do." As we approached Naota and the G&R toolbox truck, I suddenly forgot I was supposed to breathe on a regular basis. My nerves, my singing nerves, quiet please. My heart, be still. I wasn't even going to ask God, Allah, Budhha, Shiva and the Flyin' Spaghetti Monster for help. No way was I gonna trust the outcome of our talk with Clyde to the decisions of a freakin' committee…especially one that couldn't even agree on what meats you can and can't eat. No thanks, I'll just run on luck for this one.

"That's the best sound of confidence and enthusiasm I've heard this side of The Charge of The Light Brigade." Tommy pulled up next to Naota and both rolled their windows down. "Fancy meetin' you…come here often?"

"Seems like almost every day…but I can never remember why…" Good one Naota, well played. "What's up?"

"There's a lot goin' on in town today, everyone's bent outta shape about it. Word on the grapevine is it was something at the McDonalds?"

"If that's the word, then that's probably right." Naota rummaged on his seat for the camera and the pictures he'd taken. "I took these about, oh, fifteen minutes ago? Might have something to do with…well, what _is_ the grapevine saying happened?"

"Not sure, to be honest…" Tommy reached out to take the pictures. He held them over the center console so I could look too. That was Clyde alright, and that was certainly him going in and out of McDonalds…and sadly, Rick's car too. As I studied the pictures, Tommy kept talking to Naota. "Say, where's the other half of the Dynamic Duo? Or, is it now the Dynamic Uno?"

"Hopefully in the, uh…what do you call it Rig? That one place in that one Rush song you play all the time?"

"The Land of The Lost Xanadu, home of The Pleasure Dome, as decreed by Kublai Khan." Do I know my songs…or do I know my songs?

"Yeah, Tommy, that one. Somewhere in that neighborhood. Ideally." Naota added with some afterthought. "Really, somewhere in town, but that's all I know."

"You two have a fight or something?" Tommy asked.

"Yeah…"

"What about?"

"Nuthin'…"

"Naota, don't you _nuthin'_ me! That just isn't you." Tommy sure had a good read on Naota. "If _you_ are getting upset, it's something important. I don't see you blowing up over Haruko changing the radio station without asking."

"Uhhgg…well…Yesterday, she just, went off on this rant about empathy; of all things. And I thought it kinda misplaced, thinking about everything she's done, you remember the story I told you. So today I tried to bring it up, and both of us didn't take it well."

"Let me guess…you went on a raging, raving tirade that would make a talk radio host envious, and after rightly demanding answers, she blew you off like yesterday's news and left?"

"Yep."

"Figured." Tommy sagely nodded, then un-sagely began scratching at his neck's five o'clock stubble. "I think, if you'll hear me out…your problem with your approach is you're trying _too hard._ You're skipping reconnaissance and scouting the area, and are rushing right for the castle gates. You haven't done any ground work. That's why she won't talk to you. She hasn't seen it fit to trust you."

" _SHE,_ doesn't trust, _ME?!_ What kind of bullshit is…?!"

"N-AH-AH-AH-AH!...Settle down!" Tommy commanded and smothered Naota's indignation. "Look, the reason both'ah y'all are getting nowhere is because neither of you trusts the other. Like it or not, believe it or not, accept it or not, that's the reality. Until that problem is overcome, all you will continue to get is pissed off and nowhere. Something, or things, happened in her life that makes her keep everything about her on lockdown. You screaming at her is only going to make her batten down the hatches tighter. So start thinking of ways to gain her trust and see where that gets you."

"Ways to gain her trust? Like what?"

"Well…there's one way that immediately comes to mind…" I thought I'd offer a suggestion. "Yah could try gittin' her drunk."

"Neither of you have the experience, or Game, for that kind of stunt." Tommy buzzkilled my idea. "Save that as a last-ditch option _only._ Try…hell, try just finding something in common."

"Besides work?"

" _Obviously._ "

"Hmmpphh…well…" Oh come on, it can't be _that_ hard Nao'! You've spent nearly every day with her for the past month! What all do, you two, do, alone, in the truck all those hours? It obviously ain't suckin' face. "We both play guitar…?"

"Eureaka! He's found it. That's your 'in'. So, go find her, and say…oh, Rig's invited y'all over to his house to play as a trio, and see how that goes."

"Wait, I invited who, to do what, and where?" This was news to me.

"Quiet you." Tommy shushed me. "You're probably gonna have to apologize a bit…I know, I know, I know!" He waved Naota down. "Humility is a great strength, and it can get you a lonnnnng, long way; even just a little of it works wonders."

"I'd have to find her first, and I'm kinda stuck watching Clyde at the moment; Rig told me to stay on him…" Oh sure, blame me. Golly Naota, the underside of this bus you've thrown me under is really dirty…I see where your loyalty's at buddy, pal…and I thought we were friends.

"We can take over for a bit." Tommy offered. "We've got the camera, pictures, Rig can get me caught up on the notes and details…it'll be no problem! I've always kinda wanted to be a spy or private investigator of sorts, let me indulge this fantasy please?"

"You sure? You don't have, anything, more exciting to do?"

"We ran our one big errand this morning, so the rest of our day is free. Don't worry, I've watched Law and Order, I know how this works. I'll just have to send Rig out for some doughnuts and coffee and we're set."

"If this's really how you want to waste your morning…then I won't stop you." Oh no Naota, we can tell how excited you are to rush off. You really are worried about Haruko's well-being…sheesh. Getting him to leave that trailer park and start canvassing town was like pulling teeth. He tossed over his notes and I began habitually transcribing them into my own. "Those're all I've got for today. I'll check in same times as usual?"

"Every half hour, on the half hour. Sounds good. Let us know when you find her!" Tommy sent him off. Naota said he would and departed back into downtown. Now it was just Tommy and I hanging out next to the dumpster. While we sat, he dug an ancient laptop in a dusty case, most likely left over from his college days, from behind his seat. He plugged its charger adaptor into the cigarette lighter and opened Powerpoint. He also asked for the external hard drive I had; the one with a copy of everything of Clyde's computer, and some choice Ice Pick screenshots I'd added to the collection. We had several duplicates of all the files now, plus everything backed up on our computers at the shop, but you never know when you might need the info.

"What're you doing?" I asked as Tommy began typing.

"Makin' a slideshow…"

"No! Say it ain't so. That what they teach in college, how to make sweet slideshows?"

"Nah. College is Introduction to Word. Powerpoint is only at the I.I.B.'s academy."

"Hmm. And if you're some kind of prodigy, they'll let you use Excel?"

"Now you're catching on."

"What about Access?"

"Oh, you have to be in the G.S.P.B. to have clearance to use Access."

"But don't only prissy, high-and-mighty, know-it-alls use Access?"

"Must I repeat myself?"

"That's about right." I had really psyched myself up for this, for a face-to-face with Clyde. My adrenaline was ready to go, my chakras or whatever aligned…and there we sat. There we sat, and with Tommy tacking away on his 90's era brick of a computer. "Uh…Tommy?"

"Uh…Rig?"

"Are we gonna…y'know…go? Or are you having a flashback to Accounting 101?"

"Remember how I've been telling you to think more'n' two seconds past your nose?"

"Yeeeaaaahhh…?"

"Do that for a minute, please."

"I don't, I don't follow."

"What's your heart rate right now?" He motioned to my neck and the jugular within. "Go on, count it."

"It's…eighty per minute."

"Mine's at seventy-five."

"So?"

"So, imagine what Clyde's has to be right now. He just committed what could be considered a mass murder, snuck in and out of the crime scene undetected, to his knowledge, and this is a guy who isn't physically violent, or active. Clyde's heart is doing easily one hundred plus right now. He's also gonna be _flooded_ with adrenaline. What would that make him?"

"Hyped up, I guess?"

"Hyped up, jittery, paranoid, confused, jumpy, reactionary, a nervous wreck. We walk up to that door and knock on it right now, odds are good we'd get shot at. If it were the cops, you know they'd be chomping at the bit to go all gangbusters…and they'd get themselves into a gunfight. Since we are not the cops, we'll wait a bit for Clyde to calm down, let that adrenaline drain."

"Wait, wait…there's something else to, isn't there?"

"Now you're catching on. Because civvies got hurt, or even killed, there's a good chance the cops could show up. Or, since we know Cole explicitly told Clyde _not_ to do something like this, Cole could show up any second too. Third, Clyde had help, seven of them in all. Since Conwell's outta the picture, no doubt he's been picked up to languish in Moshannon Valley, there's still six of 'em that could show up too. That's more trouble than we want to deal with. So we'll wait and see if any of the three groups show their faces, and for Clyde to mellow out."

"When you put it that way, it makes perfect sense. Why didn't I think of that?"

"Two steps ahead Kemosabe…two steps ahead…" He continued to type. "In the meantime, I know you have a knack for design and engineering. How about thinking of a way to supplement our twelve hundred rifle deficit, and our complete lack of submachine guns?"

"There's a few ideas I've been kicking around…huummm…" I started the warm up procedure of my brain's cathodes, took out my pen and notebook, and settled in to wait.

. . .

She wasn't sure who or what, but something was back there. Haruko could feel its eyes on the back of her head. Whatever it was, she was in no mood to humor another annoyance. Already she had wandered far from the area of town she was familiar with. Now she found herself on a tree lined residential sidewalk with no destination in particular. She hoisted the guitar's strap a little higher on her shoulder and continued the raving rant inside her head.

'Just _WHO_ in the _HELL_ , does that limp-dicked, panty-waisted, bottom-feeding, _under_ -evolved, _over_ -rated, pretentious, arrogant, stubborn, empty-headed, _PUNK_ think _HE_ is to have the _CAJONES_ to be giving _ME_ this kind of _UN_ -warranted, _UN_ -called for, blatantly unrepentant _insubordination?!_ Huh?! He doesn't even know _half_ , no, a quarter, an eighth! A thousandth! Of what I've been through, the self-less, noble sacrifices I've made along the course of my virtuous endeavors…'

Okay, _okay, OKAY_. That's enough. This author can only tolerate so much self-delusion. Haruko, let's bring it down about, 10 or 15, how about 20 percent? Keep that energy and enthusiasm, lose some of the hyperbole. Thank you, as you were.

'At least when I was in Space there was no one nagging at me day and freakin' night. Naota'll make a great housewife someday.' She turned another corner. It was a test to see if the presence behind her was actually following her. If she made it around the whole block and was still being followed, then woe unto the nosey bastard tailing her! 'But seriously. What's his problem? It's been four years, I'd have thought he'd grown _up_ , and gotten _over_ all that by now. Wasn't he supposed to be the one who was always 'Hur-dur, look-it me, I'm so mature! Look at me in my Ivory Tower of Condescending!' Doesn't he get that Mabase was just a skirmish; a single Iron that Medical Mechanica didn't even bother to guard, just one orbital weapon, and only a handful of robots! They went easy on us! That town needed some action anyway, a shakeup. As a matter of fact, I'd even say I did them a favor by saving the entire place from dying of boredom. Sure, what…two-thousand-and-change people got killed? Imagine if I hadn't shown up, then who knows? I mean, the I.I.B. was doing _such_ , a bang-up job of fucking _everything_ up; talk about clueless. That Iron could've gone active and there would have been no one around to stop it, 'cause I'd have never opened that channel in Naota, and then Atomsk would've never had his chance to escape, and would still be locked up with Medical Mechanica, and Earth would have been just another brick in The Red Star of The Solar Federation's wall. So…THERE.' She made the second turn, and it seemed the figure was gone. Better keep going to make sure.

'It's all really a matter of perspective. What's two thousand odd compared to having ninety percent of your entire species go the way of genocide, and the remaining ten percent scattered to the far ends of the Galaxy? Uh-huh, go ahead, I'll wait. That's what I thought. It's fuckin' chump change, that's what! And until Naota understands that, and gets it imbedded in that thick skull of his, he's gonna forever be crying over a few drops of spilled milk instead of realizing it could have been his house that got blown up, his planet and civilization too, and everything and everyone he loved along with it. AND! Don't even get me _started_ on that empathy crap! He thought _I_ was _pathetic?!_ Oh, oh-ho-ho! I'll show him pa…the…uh…oh.'

"Good morning, Miss Haruko Haruhara." While facing the armored and gear-driven fury of Medical Mechancia robots, Haruko had never shirked from a fight. Running from black-clad and assault rifle toting Marines had not phased her in the least. Even confronting Naota with Atomsk's absorbed powers had not seen her willingly cede the field. Now, on that sunny Pennsylvanian sidewalk, her body locked up in frigid horror. No fog sifted into her mind, it was too sharp to be dulled by such a trick. No mist bothered to try clouding her eyes, what she could plainly see was terrifying enough. She could feel how widely her eyes had opened, pupils dilating to their maximum to gather as much visual data as possible. The air trapped in her lungs turned to icy spikes while her brain tried to remember if breathing was required while trying not to panic. As tightly and densely as her stomach was winding in on itself, it was only a matter of time before it formed a black hole. All this began and occurred within a blink of a second, as soon as she perceived the figure standing before her.

'No…how, how did one, of…THEM…find me?' She thought in between her instincts begging for orders: FIGHT?! FLIGHT?! FIGHT?! FLIGHT?! If you Fight, that Thing'll rip your arms off at the shoulder and cram them finger-first down your throat! If you try Flight, you'll only die tired! And they _like_ to chase things too! What do we do?! And, probably not worst of all, but most humiliating certainly, was that for once, Haruko couldn't think of a single clever or snarky thing to say.

"You're a hard woman to find, and yet…here you are!" Haruko did not believe in any God, Allah, Buddha, Shiva, any sort of divine being or omnipotent, all-knowing, all-mighty, higher power. But she did have a Devil that to her existed as surely as Gravity is Law. Her Devil did not walk on cloven hooves, wield a trident, swish an arrowed tail, or present itself with red skin, horns, and glowing eyes. This Devil was _much_ more underhanded, and _much_ cleverer. It was polite. It was courteous, friendly even. It offered a smile as warm and soft as the day. It was even well dressed. Mirror polished black shoes. Pressed black slacks. A trim, custom-tailored, four piece suit. A glossy waistcoat. An attache case and long coat, both hands gloved in tight leather. A hidden face behind blacked out sunglasses and under a wide-brimmed fedora. And finally, a flashing silver chain from the waistcoat to a large pocketwatch of the same metal. This Devil, this walking, breathing, pleasantly chatting, smiling, Nightmare, was exactly as Haruko remembered; even with ten years and several planets removed.

"And exactly on time too!" The pocketwatch snapped shut and was replaced in its pocket on the waistcoat. "Oh dear me. I haven't frightened you speechless, have I?"

"Hardly." Wrenching her jaws to open felt like she would break them doing so, but she managed to speak without any tremor to her voice. "I was just wondering where and how you had found the courage to show your despicable self in public. Yet somehow, against all common sense and decency, here you are."

"Hmm-hmm-hmm, ah-ha, Ha-ha-ha, Ah-Hah-Hah-HAH!" Somehow, and much to her fury, The Man in Black found her insult highly amusing. "Oh, you are as charming as ever, Miss Haruhara. It has been far too long. In fact, I would be most pleased if you joined me for breakfast."

"I would rather be beaten to death with my own Guitar, from the toes up."

"Let's not jump to each other's throat _just_ yet. Why, you haven't even heard my proposition; and I'm quite proud of it. I wrote it special, just for you. Come, let's have a heart to heart."

. . .

* * *

First (now that I found my list!) to the Guest reviewer who predicted, back in Chapter 5, a bridge between 'Redneck of Roanapur' and this story...congratulations on your comeback Michel de Nostredame! You've been paying attention, I like you.

To those of you who have played Call of Duty: MW2 and MW3, you know of the Moscow Airport Massacre, and the London Chemical Attack; especially the latter as it was filmed from a first person perspective. The few short paragraphs describing the event at McDonald's were the hardest to write, and I even considered cutting them from the story. They were going to be replaced by the P.P.D. dispatch and radio transmissions from responding officers. But I decided, no, the readers can handle it, and this is a part that needs to stay. If you can't do this, then what is to come will never get done. That said, I made sure not to work on that part while on lunch break. I do not need the General Manager to be making his rounds and find me typing that up.

Haruko, if transformed into an animal, would definitely be a cat. When a cat does something it's not supposed to (and I have two cats at home, so trust me) it doesn't care. Knocked over the lamp and broke it? Meh. Whatever. Took a dump on the rug? Well...screw you. I'm a cat. I dump on whatever rug I feel like. No sense of guilt is built into their system...and Haruko feels to me exactly the same way. Nothing is her fault, and even if it was, she will perform somersaults, back and front flips to twist it into a positive thing. Got two thousand plus people killed and a town destroyed? Hey, if it weren't for me, there wouldn't even be a town to destroy. So really...you owe me an apology, and a thank you. I have a feeling this back and forth between her and Naota can only go on for barely so much longer. (Pulls the UST come-along winch just a tad tighter...click-click-click...any second now...click-click-click...)

Closing out...The Man in Black gives me the heebee-freakin'-jeebees. God he's spooky. And I made him. I know I've said this many times before, but...bhuhuh. The same to Clyde...just...bhuhuh. If there were a sin I'd be closest to, it would be Gluttony. But I wouldn't want to be caught dead anywhere near this guy.

On a happier note, please search in youtube for: M1895 Colt-Browning Machine Gun. It is such an interesting mechanical wonder, and despite its turn of the 19th century birthday, is quite deadly too. It's fun just to watch it work. John Moses Browning, a genius indeed.

As always, you're probably tired of me saying it, but thank you all so, so much for reading and reviewing. There are long days at the office, the weather here is dark, cold and wet, I'm quitting as much sugar as I can so I'm going through an energy flux right now, but there has always been fanfiction and you readers. Thank you again for taking time out of your days to read my writings, it means so much to me.


	13. Chapter 13

Attention all Fan-Fiction shoppers, attention all shoppers! BigCountry-75 Productions is having a special this week on Fooly-Cooly: The Pennsylvania War chapters. With the reading of a Chapter 13, you get a Chapter 14 for FREE. That's right, your hearing isn't going the way of your grandma's. Two chapters in one week. AND, if you read _right now_ , we'll throw in Lieutenant Kitsurubami AND Commander Amarao as a bonus (and as an apology for being a month behind schedule because I was feeling out-of-sorts and had been stuck in a grey, sour mood) So come and get 'em while there's still some left on the shelves, they'll be going fast. Be the first on your block to read them, be the envy of all your friends, win the admiration and respect of your in-laws, keep a hard copy on the coffee table as a conversation piece, we don't care, just get out there AND READ!

* * *

. . .

 _Brrrrrrrrrr…tackah-tackah-tah-tack-tack! Brrrrrrraacckkk! Tick-ah-tack-tick-tack-brrr…tick-ah-snap! SNAP! SNAP! Thump-ah-tack-ah, thump-ah-tack-tick-brrrrrr…ack-ah-tack-tick snap! Crack! BRRRrrrrr-ack-ah-tack-tick-ah-tack-ah-tack-snap-crack, Thump-ah-crack-SNAP! Brrrrrr…_

"Lieutenant Kitsurubami! Must you?!"

"My apologies Captain!"

"Uhmm-hmm. Look, if you have your report ready I don't mind you drumming. I just do not want to _hear_ it. Am I understood?"  
"Yes Sir, sorry Sir."

"Good. See your company at oh-nine-thirty." The Captain raised his thermos of coffee in salute and disappeared into his office.

'If we were sent out into the field more often, I wouldn't be wasting my time drumming on my desk…' Lieutenant Mana Kitsurubami grumbled to herself. Promotions come with both good and bad, as she was learning. She had been promoted two years prior to a Full Lieutenant, an O-3 grade, up from Lieutenant Junior Grade, an O-2. Amarao had gotten the nod from a Lieutenant Commander, an O-4, to Full Commander, an O-5. While the bump in pay was appreciated, the prestige welcome, and new responsibilities an exciting challenge for both, the monotony of a desk was already creeping in. Firing her heavy rifles more often at the range than in the field just wasn't the same.

"Good morning, Lieutenant." It was 0800 and Commander Amarao was exactly on time. He settled into his desk next to hers, brought up his terminal of displays and began reading the news. As a Full Commander, he now was tasked with four 50-man platoons instead of the single 50-man unit he used to lead. A reform in unit and command structure of the Interstellar Immigration Bureau had shifted their roles slightly. Mana was still Amarao's Executive Officer, but she now performed more autonomous missions. The platoon Lieutenants were a capable quartet and freed her up. As relations and talks with Medical Mechanica had deteriorated to non-existent, her missions were less focused on diplomacy; with a growing trend towards kinetic solutions.

"And good morning to you too, Commander. How was your weekend?"

"It was alright. Found a new cycling route through the Capital…got caught up on my shows…" He scanned an article branding the Galactic Government as 'clueless reactionaries' who were 'playing a failing game of catch-up' with Medical Mechanica and The Red Star of The Solar Federation. "How about you? Let me guess…you spent all weekend at the ranges again?"

"I _had to_ Commander. The Heavy Weapons Platoon is looking at adopting a new long-range rifle. So I went to try them out myself." The team Mana was attached to was Amarao's go-to for heavy weapons, anti-vehicle, anti-air, anti-spacecraft, anti-naval, explosives, anti-material…anything that flew, drove, sailed, needed reduced to rubble, or eliminated from extreme distances, he called on Mana and Heavy Weapons. "We've been using the Russian OSV-96, from Earth. A few new companies have been clamoring to be given a chance to compete. One even accused the I.I.B. of 'planetary favoritism' for arms suppliers."

"Planetary favoritism? That's a new one. But I thought you liked the OSV, what's wrong with it?"

"I do like it, it was my first rifle after all. But it's becoming harder to find parts and ammunition for; especially with ongoing arms embargoes on Earth. It also weighs thirty pounds unloaded and only holds five rounds. We're looking into a lighter system, with a smaller round, one with similar or superior ballistic performance, and that also allows us, and me, to carry more ammo too."

"Anything look promising? Or will you need more _ahem,_ testing?"

"The marksmen, snipers, and I, liked the oh-three hundred magnum. A few others looked at the oh-four-sixteen made by Barrett. But…" She paused, slowing her excitement. "I think the three-thirty-eight Lapua Magnum is the winner. All that we really need is to find a platform that fires the Lapua on a consistent basis, within our criteria."

"Which is?"

"Sub half an inch MOA straight out of the box with a dry barrel, maintains at least a one inch MOA after three thousand rounds, and in temperatures from minus fifty Fahrenheit to one hundred and twenty Fahrenheit; and in zero to one hundred percent humidity."

"That's a tall order. It sounds like you want a laser. I know you're a perfectionist, but that list is strict even for you."

"I only shoot, or accept, the best."

"And that's why I keep you around." Amarao complimented and checked his watch. "What time is the briefing?"

"Oh-nine-thirty. Captain must've had a long weekend to push it back half an hour."

"That sounds about right, there's a few rumors swirling about his party life. Oh, you have your report ready? Stupid question, but I want to check."

"Right here." She had arrived early as always, to recheck and update her weekly report. The forty-three page document lay on her desk. The back cover was dimpled from the pencils she had been using to practice her drumming.

"Good to hear. I'm going to check in with the platoon leaders, make sure everyone is ready." He excused himself to cross the office and speak with his Junior Lieutenants. It was only 0815 hours, so she had an hour to kill. She reopened a minimized tab on her main screen, bringing up a slowly scrolling display of sheet music. With a click, she reset the music to start again from the top.

'Okay…La Villa Strangiato…' She readied her two pencils in a matched grip with the erasers out. 'Today's the day I finally play you the whole way through, in one take. No mistakes! Three…two…one…' La Villa Strangiato was proving a musical Everest of hers to complete, with its odd time signatures and their instant changes; plus the mental and physical endurance required to finish the nine minute long song. She made it to the six minute mark and missed a time change, winding up behind the scrolling music. Frustrated, she struck too hard and broke a pencil in half.

"GAAHHH! Curse you Neil Peart!"

" _Lieutenant!_ " The Captain reminded as the broken pencil half bounced off his office window. "Keep it down."

"Sorry Captain!"

. . .

"You must forgive me Fathers, but I do not understand." The Head sat before The Council of Head Priests, presided over by Father Brown. "You are going to conduct an Inquisition…into the Operative Program?"

"Yes, that is correct." Father Brown confirmed, adding a warm smile that did nothing for The Head.

"Fathers…" The Head addressed the Council at large. "Again forgive me, but why? Have the Operatives failed you in some way? If there is something in need of redress, merely name it. I still hold great influence in the Operative's ranks."

"Director, please. Be at Peace." Father Brown gently commanded. "I understand your concern regarding the Operatives. You have an accomplished history with them after all."

"That is correct Father. Working with them was how I came to my office, and earned my Pocketwatch."

"You performed your duty with a passion that every citizen of The Red Star should aspire to. That watch you bear is fitting to your contributions, and there is nothing you are at fault for. It is the Operatives themselves."

"How so?" The Head had always felt uneasy in the straight and high-backed chairs of The Council's Chambers, but now the sensation was exceptional.

"Our main concern is their secretive nature, their clannish ways. Why, they even construct their own pocketwatches!" Another Priest exclaimed and the others nodded grimly in agreement.

"I assure you Father, you have nothing to fear! They are the most loyal, most devoted of all Red Star Citizens; True Believers!"

"I wish I could take your word by itself." Father Brown interrupted. "Even with the weight it carries. But a group allowed such autonomy, such, such…license, must be closely monitored. No matter their loyalty. Even we Priests are not immune." He indicated with a nod to one of many cameras; peering at them from a corner through a pinhole in the stones.

"I understand their exemption was based on a matter of operational security, and also the nature of their missions. That Operatives would be sent to places so far, so remote, that regular communication would be difficult to impossible. You must agree their tasks necessitate a small degree of self-direction; within your guidance of course?"

"And that is why they must be held to such a high standard." Added a Priest from the far end of the table. "Who knows what falsehoods and blasphemy they encounter, what lies they are exposed to? We may never know if they continue in their private, closed-off manner. We cannot ensure the Purity of their Thought, and adherence to the Teachings of Syrinx if their minds are closed to examination!"

"My Fathers, I am so terribly sorry! A thousand pardons for not understanding sooner." The Head apologized while biting his cheek. "I worried it was a question of the Operative's efficiency. It is a matter of protecting them from false prophets while on their travels, when they are beyond our reach…correct?"

"…Yes, that is indeed correct." Father Brown said after a scarcely perceivable glance at the rest of The Council. "I am pleased you finally understand. We will begin conducting our Inquisition in a short while, once we are ready. Your assistance most likely will not be required, but be ready all the same. Now, the next matter I would like to discuss…"

The Head finally left The Grand Temple feeling as wrung out as an old rag. He wore a charming smile and kindly thanked the Monk that had escorted him. Inside his mind however, he was incredibly confused. This was not about the benevolence of The Priests; kindly shepherds tending their flock. He remembered his earlier years, during his mandatory conscription. Twenty years proudly served as an Ensign, JG-Lieutenant, Full-Lieutenant, LT-Commander, Commander, and finally Captain, in the Red Star's Navy as an Engineer. He had seen fear before in the eyes of his fellow sailors during pitched battles in the cold vacuum of space, and he had seen it again in the eyes of The Priests as they spoke of The Operatives.

What could it be they were so fearful of? The Operatives had been conceptualized, designed, created, born and bred, from the drawing boards, to laboratory, and birth, as _perfect_ adherents to The Teachings of The Temple of Syrinx; and the directions of The Priests. The Head had lent his assistance in their inception, helping to design the machines that enhanced their abilities. He had also commanded the Operative detachment that had finally broken the back of the Liberas; ensuring the fall of the Liberas' planet of Portum. Without the Operatives under his command, the Liberas would have continued to be the only true threat to The Red Star of The Solar Federation; instead of a now nearly extinct and scattered annoyance.

Could it be the autonomy the designers had put into the Operatives? The science behind creating the Operatives themselves was not The Head's field. His was of metal, gears and circuits, hydraulics and generation of energy, not the abstract of building and shaping thoughts and minds. So what was it? A thought occurred to him, a bubbled-up memory from one of his books from Earth; something about a...Caesar, crossing a river named Rubicon. What was the word…it started with…Revolt. A _coup d'etat_ , as the phrase went? Impossible, how could they doubt The Operatives? He'd spent years with them, and seen their lives thus far from initial concepts to that moment. Their creators had agreed to full oversight of the program at his recommendation, and The Priests had observed their actions the whole process through. The Operatives numbers were even artificially suppressed, supposedly to reduce the odds of their capture. Now The Head guessed the real reason why.

'Since the Operatives have been given the ability to think for themselves, and not as one of Medical Mechanica's robots, but autonomous individuals…' He thought, the revelation coming in slow-motion. 'That opens the possibility, however remote, that one day they could decide, they don't want to listen to The Priests anymore…' The Head came to a stop on the sidewalk. Evening had come and the capital, City of Megadon, was bathed in the twin-moon light. He looked up at them, the pair of dead planets. Once upon a time, they had teemed with life, their lights visible from the capital; or so the stories went. That had been ages before The Head's time. Long ago, those two planets had been shelled from low orbit, then finally turned to glass, for having dared defy The Priests and The Temple of Syrinx. Now they orbited as cratered and empty moons; a constant testament and warning to those who forgot their place in The Red Star of The Solar Federation.

. . .

It had been two hours. Tommy's presentation was finished, and I had some preliminary designs to fabricate and test later. We'd also gone over some of Clyde's files to pass the time. All was quiet on the Water Street Front. No Cole, no cops, no goon squad.

"Alright, Rig." Tommy unplugged his laptop. "Are you ready?"

"As I'll ever be."

"Then let's get this over with."

. . .

The Philips House restaurant was far and above Haruko's pay grade; both at G&R and even the G.S.P.B. The immediate giveaway were the real china cups, plates and bowls. Second were the three forks, four spoons, and four knives at her disposal. Third and most telling was The Man in Black sitting across the table. Where else would he be having breakfast but the finest place in town? He smiled so casually, politely thanked the staff, even offered her the menu in addition to the generous spread. He insisted she order something, that it was his treat. The whole affair was so sickeningly fake, it was all she could do to keep herself from smashing the table to splinters with her guitar. At the least she'd ruin The Man's breakfast.

"Ahhh…that hit the spot!" He declared after downing his sixth cup of coffee. "Have you finished, or would you like something else?" She had nibbled the corner of a slice of bread, only to find the crumbs turned to ash in her mouth, and her coffee had long gone cold. "Very well. To business. I suppose you're wondering why I'm here?"

"Not really, no."

"Then, to be as the saying goes, to be Frank…as opposed to being another name such as Earnest. To be frank, I am here with a proposition. Specifically, I am offering you a job."

"Come again?"

"A position among the proud ranks of The Red Star of The Solar Federation. I cannot make this clearer."

"Uh…excuse you? You, want me, to join your cult? And you think there's a chance I'd say yes? Crawl back under your rock Operative, this planet's atmosphere is messing with your head!" If it hadn't been for her fear of The Man before her, she would have laughed. Where had he gotten it in his head that she'd convert to The Red Star's own Golden Calf, their oft praised Temple of Syrinx? The mere suggestion was ludicrous.

"I assure you my mental faculties have never been sharper. I am resolute in my offer. This is not a joke, and I suggest you act accordingly."

"Alright, I'll bite. Why?"

"Why not? You have proven yourself a troublesome adversary, not an overtly dangerous one to us, mind you. But certainly irritating. It is costing The Red Star more in our efforts to kill you than it would be to simply keep your talents on retainer."

"My talents?" She knew he referred to her, and her species', ability to naturally manipulate N.O. at will.

"Don't sell yourself short." The Man clasped a hand over his heart. "Defying all conventional wisdom, you have survived thus far all efforts to snuff out your existence. Surely you must count that as an achievement? I will admit it has garnered a begrudging interest whenever your name is discussed."

"Aren't you the master of flattery?"

"Flattery? No, honesty though. I have no reason to lie to you, Miss Haruhara. You won't believe a word I say no matter what, so I might as well be truthful if only to be able to later say 'I told you so.' I really do mean it, you have won attention of persons in high positions."

"I still don't believe you, and trust you not even half as much as I hate you. But sure. Say whatever you think I want to hear."

"I wouldn't trust me either if our positions were reversed! Tell me, what has your mind troubled? What would assuage your fears?"

"Okay, first: Why? Why should I, when The Red Star, and you personally, have _destroyed_ everything, _everything_ I knew?"

"Think of it as our belated apology, and attempts to make amends. I'll freely admit the history between our cultures has not been ideal, and our last meeting saw mine become carried away in our actions. The Red Star's aim is not extermination, but bringing peoples into the shelter of The Temple of Syrinx."

"Good ideas don't require force."

"As I said, carried away. Are you familiar with a legend from this planet's far swept plains of Mongolia? I think it applies to you."

"Can't say I am. What is it?"

"There was a conqueror called Genghis Khan, and at The Battle of the Thirteen Sides, he was wounded in the neck by an arrow. After his victory, he asked the defeated, whom was it among them that had shot him. An archer by the name of Zurgadai freely admitted it had been him, and Khan was in his right to kill him. But if Khan spared him, Zurgadai would serve under him. Khan, being no fool and recognizing talent when he saw it, took Zurgadai's offer, and Zurgadai went on to become one of Khan's best generals; raiding as far west as Kiev, east to China, and everywhere in between. I see my own Zurgadai in you, Miss Haruhara. It would be a shame if you wasted yourself on whimsical pastimes and the habits of dullards." The Man eyed her guitar at those words. His obvious disdain for the instrument and the music it made, was not lost to her. "We are attempting to right a wrong, and lift up those with potential while we do so."

"Right. My take on it would be you offed too many of my people, and too late, realized we were actually more useful alive than dead, and you want me around to keep as some kind of pet. Glad that's cleared up. Next question."

"I am eager to entertain."

"Aren't you worried I'll just use you to catch Atomsk, or that I'll turn traitor later on?"

"Interesting. Well, if you do join with intent to turn traitor, know that we aren't going to drop you off at the Medical Mechanica Armory of Experimental Weapons, with a key to every door, and then walk away. You'd be placing yourself deliberately within our easy reach, allowing us to crush you with even _less_ effort, for we would know exactly where you lived, worked, ate, leisured, and any other details we want to know. Also, you assume you would actually be able to strike a minor, let alone mortal, blow on your own. I did say to not sell yourself short, but I meant within _reason._ "

"What about Atomsk though?"

"Ah, your fascination. We of Medical Mechanica have captured him handily once before, and Atomsk shall exist at The Red Star's pleasure once again in short order. I would also remind you, that your efforts spanning six years have nothing to your credit, and were waylaid four years ago by the interference of a twelve year old Human _child._ " The Man's smile turned a degree wryer at his last remark. It did not surprise Haruko that The Man knew about Mabase, and the foiling of her plans by Naota. That did not stop her stomach from pinching on itself when Naota was mentioned. "You have as much hope of capturing Atomsk as you have of walking on the surface of a star."

"Don't hold back, really. Tell me what's on your mind, how you really feel."

"I did say I have no reason to lie, and will continue to say so until you remember. Anything else?"

"Yeah. You can't afford me."

"Oh? Oh…really?! Ha-hah-HA! My dear Miss Haruhara, you have outdone yourself."

"I really mean that. Atomsk, or nothing."

"Miss Haruhara, be _realistic._ Everything, and everyone is for sale, has a price. And it is always much, much lower than their ego would have them believe. A third of the known Galaxy has cast aside their erroneous ways to join The Red Star. Contained within are wonders, treasures beyond measure, planet-spanning landscapes of solid jewels and precious minerals. Cultures with vast hoards of every desire your heart, stomach, or loins, could covet. I have even witnessed the fabled rains of diamonds, where their harvest takes an army to bring home. And that is only what I have personally seen. Only The Priests know what else lies undiscovered, unclaimed." He stopped, seeming genuinely concerned. "You do not seem convinced. Here, allow me to reveal just a sample." The Man had taken off his gloves to eat, so his hands were bare. He reached out with an exposed index finger, holding it just shy of her forehead. "Well? Aren't you at least a little curious?"

"What are you playing at? How dumb do you think I am?"

"I said I have no reason to lie. All I am going to do is show you what could be yours. I promise, I won't bite." Seeing she really had no choice and was, as The Man had put it regarding Atomsk, existing 'at the pleasure of The Red Star', she leaned forward and The Man's finger gently touched her skin.

The Philips House fell away and Haruko left Philipsburg, Pennsylvania, Earth, herself. She was there in her seat, and millions of light years away, speeding along and sitting stock still. Galaxy's formed, lived, matured and died in the palms of her hands, their shards turning to a rising sea of diamonds that swirled around her legs. She picked them up by the handful, watching the stones turn to rubies, sapphires, emeralds, opals, onyx, pearls, and turquoise as she let them fall, the jewels melting to stone, forming mountains that rose up before her to tower above and make her feel infinitesimally small. Lands of sweeping sands and swarthy strangers with dark eyes greeted her passing, cool nights contrasted under blistering noon suns. The sand blew away to reveal grasslands just beneath, and the grass turned to humid jungle; a band of hunting natives passed by in their home-spun camouflage, waving as they disappeared into the leaves. Through the jungle could be seen a shining light. Emerging from the wilderness, she found herself in The Red Star's capital, City of Megadon. Everyone who passed by smiled and greeted her as Dear Friend, laughing like old comrades. Towards the dominating feature in the city of glass, steel, and concrete she was drawn, the bastion of stone, The Grand Temple. Its doors swung open for her, revealing its treasures, mechanical and mysterious marvels at every turn. An astonishing display of The Great Computers awed her next, every facet of life within The Red Star of The Solar Federation monitored and controlled as a concert of singing electrons. Priests nodded their heads in respect at her passing, their wisdom and profound understanding radiated from and surrounded them in a dazzling aura. Then finally, The Red Star loomed before her. A five-pointed star drawn as a bold line, surrounded by a line of a circle at the star's tips, both on a background of black; a representation of The Red Star, encompassed by the ring of The Solar Federation. The Priests spoke to her, their voices filling her with a sense of tranquility, the weight of responsibility and fear of what lay beyond, lifted gently off her shoulders. They assured her they had studied The Teachings of Syrinx, and all her cares would be attended, never again would she have to wonder how, or why. The words she would read, songs she would play, the lyrics she would sing, all had been taken into account. All they asked was that she kneel before and offer herself to their guidance. Then the dream began to fade away, the colors mixing, blending in a kaleidoscope before blurring into white, then disappearing entirely to black. And then, The Man in Black removed his finger…and she was back.

"What do you think?"

"I…I…I don't…" Her body trembled and shivered, brain empty and full, unable to begin understanding all she had been shown. The clock on the far wall said only a mere thirty seconds had passed; impossible…? "What…I…how…?"

"That's the usual verbal response." The Man said matter-of-factly, pulling his gloves back on. "Although, you are still sitting upright. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, and you would have woken up on the floor. It is a lot for some to handle, but I knew your mind is strong enough."

"That, that was a nice…trick, you pulled." She recovered enough to speak. "None of it brings back what I've lost."

"Do not pretend to be so idealistic, Miss Haruhara." The Man's patience was wearing thin. "I will admit the past cannot be undone. But why waste your future investing in certain, bitter failure? That is where your current trajectory is taking you, you know. Atomsk will slip ever farther from your grasp and into ours. Even with his power controlled, you cannot hope to stand when the _full_ might of The Red Star of The Solar Federation is leveled against you. Remember, I gave you just a sample. We possess monsters even I fear."

"So what? If I can't beat you, join you?"

"And maintain some of your dignity along the way, while you still have some left. Come around on your own terms with your head held high; rather than stooped as you beg for scraps. I ask for very little, and offer so much. It is for you to decide. Know that I only extend this offer once. Take some time to think it over. I will find you when you have arrived at an answer."

"And if I refuse?"

"You will be reunited with those you have lost, and mourn for, wherever they have wandered off to. But, I suspect you already knew that." The Man made ready to leave and they both stood.

"Well, this has been a complete waste of time."

"Not at all. It was my pleasure. Oh, and as a parting gift." The Man looked at her grease and oil spattered clothes, and the still clear words of: Osceola Mills, PA. "You would be well reasoned to vacate Osceola Mills. Proximity to it may prove hazardous to your health. In the meantime, take care Miss Haruhara. We'll be seeing each other again soon."

. . .

The Central Pennsylvanian State Police Barracks was host to wild speculations on the latest news. Already it had been given a morbid moniker, dubbed: The McDonald's Massacre. Office sections were tuned to their radios and were contacting friends in other departments for inside information. What they were hearing did not dispel any rumors, but merely added to them and a growing list of questions.

"Heeyyy…didn't one've Kauffman's brothers get kicked out of McDonald's yesterday?"

"Now that you mention it, yeah! My neighbor's niece's, cousin works as fry-bitch there. Said, which Kauffman was it?" The Patrolman snapped his fingers to stimulate his memory. "Clyde! Of course. Clyde raised some kind of a scene and the manager bounced him. You don't…you're not suggesting HE did this?"

"It's a possibility." The other officer shrugged. "Think we should, you know, say something?"

"Look, Cole's well, the Kauffman family really, are in _really_ tight with The Man in Black. I don't wanna be the one ratting on a Kauffman, and get my brain Ironed for my trouble. A mindless slave, a prole, me? 'Cause I blabbed? Fuh-get-a-bow-dit!"

"I see your point. Still, we should at least let Cole know sooner, rather than later, and from us than from someone else."

"Then _you_ can be brave, and _you_ can call him."

"Kauffman speaking." Cole answered his personal device. "I'm on patrol, so make this brief."

"Kauffman, its Terry. Have you been listening to P.P.D. dispatch at all?"

"No. Why? What's happened?"

"There's…" Officer Terry chose his words carefully. "…Been an, incident, at the McDonalds."

"What _kind_ of incident?"

"Mass poisoning they're saying. Something in the soda fountain. We just thought the optics looked bad, after Clyde, well, you know."

"Mass poisoning, in the soda…oh fuck No HE _DID_ _ **NOT!**_ " Cole's voice rose from confused muttering to rage as he came to the inevitable conclusion. _BANG!_ Officer Terry flinched as Cole punched the roof of his cruiser. "I specifically told him not to…that slobby, fat piece of…grrrrnnngghh-aaaaaahhhgg! Whooo…okay…okay…oh…kay. Terry. Thank you for the call. I'll look into it. See you both back at the station." Cole hung up and Officer Terry said the conversation had gone better than expected.

"But what did he mean by he told him not to? Does…" The other officer pondered Cole's words. "Does that mean Clyde did poison those people?"

"Hey, Cole said he'll look into it. It he's taken interest, I'm staying the hell outta the way; and so should you. Once he's locked into something, nothing gets in Cole's way."

"I know he's a control-freak, but his own brother? Family loyalty has limits. I mean, seven kids, for…why? Clyde had a bitch-fit?"

"What if…what if, it was planned, part of the setup for What is To Come? You know, something from The Man?"

"Oh…well, now that's…hmmm. You've got me in a bind with that one." The officer fiddled with one of her earrings in thought. "I guess then it would be a matter of Ends and Means, wouldn't it? If this really was a setup for later, then it'd be a damn good way to scare the people."

"The good ole False Flag, strikes again? It's worked well enough before."

"Exactly! All the arsons a few weeks ago, the tanker explosions, the derailed train? Now poisonings and a mass attack? If it really is all part of The Man's plan, he's really thought it out quite well. I wonder how we get involved though."

"We don't have a fleet of M.R.A.P. and Bearcat trucks, all those fine toys from the Department of Homeland Security, and our handy list of domestic terrorists, just for shits and giggles. What's the point if we're never gonna use them?"

. . .

"Yo, who's this?"

"Kauffman."

"Which one man? There's like, seven of you."

"Take a wild, fuckin' guess."

"…Carl?"

"Idiot. It's COLE, you miscegenated mouth-breather!"

"Damn, I'm sorry! Shitty phone, y'all sound alike on it. What's going on? We've never been called up for stuff."

"Clyde has disobeyed direct orders, from me. Get the others, go to his trailer, and DO NOT let him leave. Tie him to his couch if you must."

"Holy shit, what'd he do? No, nah, I don't wanna know. Okay, we can do that, no prob'. You gonna send someone over, or what?"

"I'll be there myself. I will not allow insubordination. Clyde seems to have forgotten I am the one in charge of my family, and after today, he'll never forget."

"Hey, you don't pay us to be creative. We do as told, as paid. How long you gonna be?"

"About an hour until I'm done."

"Cool. See you then." The hired henchman closed the call after Cole's dismissal, then dialed for the other remaining five. Conwell had seemingly dropped off the radar a few days prior; all calls were going to voicemail. He figured Conwell had become a loose end, been cut off and promptly rolled up. Not his problem. "Hey, it's me. Head to Clyde's. His cop brother sounds like he's bringing a major beatdown on Lardo; don't wanna miss out. Huh? 'Bout an hour he said. Yes, _now,_ you sleepy fuck. Hasta pronto, dumbass. Yeah, fuck you too, and see you there."

. . .

*Tac! Tac! Tac!* Tommy knocked on Clyde's tin door. Nothin'. *Tac! Tac! Tac!* C'mon man, we know you're home. Don't make this harder than it already is gonna be; for both of us. _*BANG-BANG-BANG!*_ Now Tommy kicked the door's corner with a steel toe.

" _WHAT?!_ " Clyde erupted from inside. Damn it all, I know you're stressed out, but Gee-zuss! "Who is it, and the fuck do you want?!" Tommy looked at me, time to make something up.

"Hehm-hem…Hey brah, it's like, UPS mah doood." I dropped down about three octaves and set the tone to a blend of 'Grateful Dead concert' and 'toolish frat-broski'. Nothing against UPS, mind. I just figured Clyde would react better to some harmless sounding stoner. "Got this box for yah."

"I…I didn't order anything."

"Look, your royal dude-li-ness, it says I gotta have someone sign for it. It…uh, is there a cat named Jack Smith livin' here?"

"…One second." Gotcha. The bolt drew back, the door creaked open and for a moment Clyde's eyes narrowed. We were _far and away_ who he expected to see on his porch. In my pocket, I pressed RECORD on my phone's screen. We were live and rolling.

"Hi Clyde!" Tommy greeted while jamming his foot in the door. "Mind if we have a quick chat? It's very important, but won't take long. A contradiction that may seem, but I assure you, well worth your time."

"Huh? What the hell…?" Clyde, his eyes gone from narrowed to fully angry, didn't know what to say; at first. He figured something out quick though. "N-no! No you can't, and get the fuck off my porch!"

"It's about Craig." Tommy held out a piece of irresistible bait.

"Craig?" Clyde's tone turned, from outright angry to suspicious; but open to more. "What about him?"

"Let us have a sit down talk, and we'll tell you." The gears in Clyde's head turned as his facial features wiggled, frowned and furrowed as he thought. Craig, having been gone for almost two weeks now, surely weighed heavily on his brother's minds.

"…Fine. Make it fast." And we were invited in. Seated at the couch and Clyde at his computer chair, Tommy set up his laptop on the coffee table. "What's this? A frickin' Powerpoint?"

"Yes, Clyde." Tommy explained. "This'll only take a moment." He brought up the first slide; titled 'Means, Motive, and Opportunity'. "As you requested, we'll make this fast. You ready?"

"OH SURE…" Clyde's eyes rolled back to white in annoyance. "WHY NOT?"

"Oke-ah-doke. Means, Motive, and Opportunity. It's what detectives look for when investigating crimes, and preparing a case for the District Attorney. We'll start with your Motive." Tommy had reverted back to his accountant days from college, and experiences from his time in the I.I.B. Not only was he going to prove what Clyde had done, but he was gonna do it with bullet-points, charts, graphs, and data; a line-by-line indictment.

"Starting six months ago, and over the course of the year prior to that date, you and your six brothers, Cole, Carl, Caleb, Craig, Chris, and Cody, were all fired from your places of employment under poor terms. Since then, your former employers have been experiencing a sabotage campaign that would make The Weather Underground proud." He flicked through slides, showing newspaper clippings. 'Sabotage at Solomon's?' 'Dahl-Destruction?' 'Chartier's Chaos!' On a side note, maybe we should encourage Kamon Nandaba to take a position at the Philipsburg Journal instead, and see if he could get them to lay off the hyperbole. "As all of you were fired, and given a demonstrated and documented family history for violent behavior spanning decades, and that all business have been affected, this is easily seen as a case of former employee revenge."

"You say that." Clyde didn't sound impressed thus far. "You got no proof though."

"Don't you worry none. The Kauffman Brothers can't take all the credit either, you've had some outside help. But we'll come back to that."

"Outside help?" A small muscle in Clyde's neck twitched. Marked.

"Moving on." Next slide. "Now, Opportunity. Also obvious. With your combined knowledge of these mines and sites, their layouts and day to day operations, where, what, and who to strike would be simple to decide for you and yours." The slides ticked by, showing employee biographies of each Kauffman from their employer's records; name, age, position, date of hire and fire, performance reports, reasons for termination. Tommy must have requested these back in June. "Again, with your outside help, funding and materiel support were easy to acquire; especially for you. The poisonings at all these mines and fields all had one thing in common. They tracked the source back to the kitchens, to the food specifically." Now medical reports Tommy had begged, borrowed or stolen. "Foreign substance, stomach. Foreign substance, gastrointestinal tract. Toxic substance, upper intestine, lower intestine. You were a cook in Mister Pike's mess hall, were you not?"

"So I was!" Clyde spat and his neck twitched again. Marked. "Again, so what? This is all coincidence."

"So it would seem. Then why, why-oh-why, do you have all this literature on that computer behind you? Herbology, toxicology, wild edibles, human anatomy and physiology, hydroponics, indoor gardening…you're a regular Renaissance Man."

"How…what…you?!" Lost for words, Clyde was turning apoplectic purple at the violation of his privacy. "On, m-m-my-MY! Computer?! You _broke into_ my computer?!" He bellowed before stopping himself.

"Ahhh…so you admit it; all that is on your computer." Tommy now smiled. "I think you'll recognize these too?" Not allowing Clyde to answer, Tommy now shared Clyde's collection of mine and barracks diagrams, the layout of water, shower, and air ventilation systems. "Oddly suspicious for a cook to have on his computer, wouldn't you say?"

"I've had enough!" Clyde hauled himself to full height. "Get the fuck out! Right now! Get the fuck out right now, 'cause I'm calling Cole, and both've you are going to Pound-in-the-Ass Prison for stealing shit off my computer!"

"It wasn't stolen, it was pirated. A copy of everything on your computer was made, nothing was removed." I could not resist correcting him. _What?_ If you're gonna threaten people, do it with the proper terminology, or not at all. Otherwise you look incompetent. "Stealing it would mean the data is no longer on your machine. This was copied, thus pirated. Imagine if I stole your car, but in the morning, it's still sitting in your driveway, while I'm doing doughnuts with it in the mall parkin' lot."

"Get fucked Jeff."

"Know any hot, single females within five miles you could recommend?"

"Rig, please." Tommy sought to bring us back around.

"Whatever! I'm calling now, better run bitches."

"That would not be wise." Clyde's hand stopped short of his pocket at Tommy's warning.

"Oh yeah, why?" Clyde stared us down. He was proving an interesting character now that I had interacted with him for a new life-time record time. He started off brash like he was trying to be Craig, would wither under pressure, explode again, wither, and now was gaining steam again. My guess was he couldn't figure us out. We weren't easily bullied like Conwell had been. Yet, we weren't screaming and raging at him, yet, either. So he didn't know if he should intimidate us away, or play soft and beg for mercy. Sometimes the best thing you can do to frustrate your enemy, is nothing at all.

"First, if my crystal ball is working properly, and it usually is, Cole is already on his way here." Oh yeah, forgot about that for a minute. No sooner had he said that, Clyde's neighbor pulled out of their driveway and nearly gave me a heart attack. "Especially after that stunt you pulled at McDonalds."

"What about McDonalds? I wasn't there, you're still blowing smoke; you can't prove shit."

"Yes we can, and we will." Tommy nodded to me and I dropped the Polaroids taken by Naota; making sure the one with Clyde in Rick's car was on top. "Unless that's your Doppelganger, you've got no support or help coming from Cole. Your brother is a tyrannical, Jack-booted fascist of Il Duce magnitude, but even he has a limit; and you've blown right past it."

"W-wha…h-how?!" Clyde picked up the polaroids with shaking fingers flipping through them in horror. That apoplectic purple was draining away into a petrified pallor of pale. (Say that five times fast.) "Have you been following me? How long?"

"We haven't been following you." I said, getting a crawling feeling of Déjà vu. "But, friends, very talented friends, of ours have. And how long? Too long, I'd say."

"Whaddyah want from me then, why're you here?" He snapped, eyes flitting from window to window. Did he expect to see Humphrey Bogart's ghost peering between the blinds? "And still, whatever you think I've done, I don't see proof. Where's your evidence? Oh, that's right, none of this is admissible in court anyway. So take your slideshow and shove it up your ass." Motherfucker, we just gave more proof than your chili-cheese brain can hope to…gggrrrraaahh….okay, okay. I'm cool. 'Where's your evidence?' is such a bullshit phrase, it just drives me up the wall.

"Admissible in court. Heh, that's good." Tommy and I had a mutual, knowing, and joyless, laugh.

"So goddamn funny?"

"You will be tried in court, if you cooperate or not; as surely as my name is Thomas Raymond Carson. "An official court if you knock the bullshit off. But if you insist on giving us a hard time…" Tommy made his threat. "You will be tried, and found desperately wanting, in The Court of Public Opinion. You see, all of this information and then some, is loaded into an email. You keep screwing with us, bitching about 'evidence', I whip out my phone and hit SEND. Within ten minutes, about _three thousand_ , pipe-swinging, kneecapping and curb-stomping, bad motherfuckers will have all of it, AND your picture, your address, your car make, year and model, and your plate number. All I'll have to do is read about it in the Journal's obituary. Local man found butchered six ways to Sunday, and then a seventh time in case he thought they were sorry, his remains dumped outside Kenny Dalhgren's Funeral Home. Autopsy reveals extensive trauma and torture before death. Investigation found snuff and child pornography on his home computer…"

"WHOA! WHOA! WHOA!" Clyde exploded with indignation, veins pulsing across his face, up and down his neck; even his eyes popped. If he wasn't careful, he was gonna have an aneurysm. "How, just _where_ in the _FUCK_ do you get off with that?! I _NEVER_ …" There goes that twitch again. Be glad you don't have to make a living at poker Clyde, 'cause you really suck at this. "Just what _evidence_ do you have?" Whoops. Yah done it now. Just like a Basic-Berkeley-College-Bitch, I'm fucking triggered. God, I hate the word triggered, too. Double-triggered!

"Bull-fucking-shit! Did you not hear me when I said a copy of _everything_ was made from your computer?!" I shouted Clyde down. I'd been tracking time and we were about ten minutes in. Cole would be there in, theoretically, fifty minutes if he was coming from the far end of Black Moshannon where he usually prowled; and we needed to have been long gone by then. "We've been watching your every move on that thing. I know your Facebook login, your email passwords, your Steam account, your bank account information, even your porn subscriptions. I have read everything you have typed, screened, watched, played, uploaded, downloaded, for the past six months. The most offensive by far, has to be a double-header. First you got that Oni Chi-Chi hentai anime of some middle schooler girl gettin' pooned up her ass, and then, a snuff film! A goddamn **SNUFF** film, where these two Romanian kids beat with a baseball bat, to death, two Hungarian kids, in someone's basement; while a crowd of sick fucks like you, stand around with their dicks in their hands and watch! We have got you nailed so goddamn bad, Clyde's in alternate realities are cringing at how badly you've fucked up. So can we please, pretty fuckin' please, dispense with the bullshit now?!"

"Jesus H. Christ on a pogo stick…" In my peripheral, Tommy's eyes were moon-wide. "Yeah Clyde, what Rig said. Ditto, fuck me…"

"C-c'mon Carson…you, wouldn't really tell people that, would you? Cole's told me what other prisoners do to guys locked up for sex crimes…"

"Don't try to pretend you're all sad about it all of a sudden. I've seen your downloads and search history. This wasn't a pop-up you accidentally clicked on. You hunted this shit down."

"Fuck…" Out of steam, a winded Clyde collapsed into his chair. A slight wheeze rattled from him as he tried to calm down. "Okay, before I say anything. I want…"

"Yeah, gonna stop you _riiiight_ there." Tommy interrupted. "You're in no position to make demands. Shit Crik doesn't even cover it. Either you tell us, in detail, how you've pulled the poisonings off, or we'll hand you over to the victim's friends and tear this place apart from stem to stern in the meantime. Have you ever wondered what it would feel like to be lowered foot first into a rock crusher set to slow? I bet there are some miners of Mister Voyze's that'd _love_ a volunteer to find out."

"Clyde, right now Tommy and I are your only chance. We already have more than enough to bring before a judge; people've gone to The Chair for less. And for your stunt at McDonalds, I know Cole is gonna throw you under the bus. If you help us, we help you."

"Ah shit Carson, I don't know…" He shifted in his chair and tried to make up his mind. He'd better do it quick. I think he was really stalling for time and hoping that Cole would show up and save him. "L-look, how about…"

"Last time, for the _last_ , goddamn time." Tommy's voice dropped an octave. His patience, and our time, was running out. "We are being unreasonably generous. Clyde, you've killed people. You've killed husbands, fathers. You've killed children, Clyde. You, killed children, because you got your ego hurt in front of perfect strangers; and framed an innocent man for it." As Tommy talked, a look of revulsion came over Clyde, as if he was only beginning to understand what tragedy he had caused.

"No, see, you've got it wrong…"

"What?! What part do we have wrong?! Riddle it to me, use small words!"

"You, you don't understand! I…"

"Know what Clyde, you're right. I don't understand. I don't understand how someone could murder people and seven children because they got their ass handed to them by a McDonalds manager, I don't understand how someone could poison scores of people, I don't understand how someone could listen to the fairy tales conjured up by an alien charlatan in a cheap suit, and sell his soul, his planet, and his entire species, for thirty pieces of silver." Now Clyde knew, if there was any remaining doubt, he was totally and utterly screwed. We knew about the 'outside influence'…The Man in Black.

"I'm sure Conwell would be able to explain it all if he were here…" I added and the deer with headlights bearing down on him, turned to me. "Well, if he were here and you weren't too busy calling him your 'Butt-Boy'. Spare me, I've heard the audio."

"And I'd call Conwell a sick, murdering bastard too, if he were here. I ain't discrimatory, I hate all of you traitors equally." Tommy glared daggers at Clyde. "If you'd used anything else, anything but Jack-in-The-Pulpit…" The deer's eyes grew ever larger as the headlights closed in. "What was it at McDonalds? Belladonna? Foxglove? Suicide Tree, any ringin' any bells? I'd have thought you'd go for Exlax since you're so familiar with its effects…"

"F-fuck you, fuck you both…" Clyde whimpered as Tommy slammed his verbal knife where it hurt the worst. "You really don't get it! All my life, it's been the same, every damn day. Oh look, there goes Krispy-Kreme-Kauffman! Hey, it's Chubby-Chins-Clyde! The guys used me as their punching bag, jokes and all. Oh, let's whale on Clyde, he can't feel it; 'cause he's all fat! Let's ask him the last time he saw his dick, in front of all the girls, yeah, that'll be a fuckin' hoot! The girls think he's some kind of freak anyway, so who cares? No one is gonna stick up for fat, stupid Clyde, not after the Exlax!" That verbal knife Tommy had stuck into Clyde, had hit an emotional jugular. The anger and utter sadness bled from Clyde in a gushing fountain. He probably had never talked to anyone about any of this, so what felt like years' worth of bile, just poured. Hell, he got himself so worked up he started ranting and raving against what sounded like every human being he'd ever had contact with; even in passing. The combination of stress, fear, anger, hate, depression…just, wow. Damn it was ugly to watch. For the first few minutes, at least, Tommy and I just sat there. I mean, what do you do when someone just, dissolves? None of it helped me feel any measure of sorry for him. A torrent of 'woe is me' and all the horror stories of his childhood, weren't going to magic the dead back to life. If anything, it just pissed me off.

"Hey, HEY…HEY!"  
"WHUT?!"

"Will you jest fockin' quit?! Quit fuckin' crying, you sorry sack of shit. Where the hell's any piece of your pride, your spine? Don't you have any, any at all? Act like an adult for one goddamn minute, fer Cripe's sake!"

"Shhut, uup!"

"Oh, fuck you. C'mon Tommy, let's leave him for Cole; my blood pressure ain't got the ceiling for this crap."

"Clyde. Clyde…" Tommy stood next to a hunched over, whistling as he breathed, wreck. "Clyde, look, look... _**look at me**_. Is this helping you, any way at all?"

"No…?"

"Then stop. You have two options. Go out as a snot-dripping, whiny disgrace; which you're doing a bang-up job of…or with some measure of dignity. Pick one." Finally able to calm down, Clyde took several deep, shuddering breaths, and decided.

"You win. God fucking damn, you win. Here…follow me."

. . .

"Okay…where _haven't_ I looked?" Naota had one of the truck's maps open and it showed a view of Philipsburg spread across the steering wheel. He had worked his way through town and down to the mall. Now he sat frustrated in the parking lot outside Peebles department store. "Rig said people who are lost or wandering follow the terrain, and the path of least of resistance. I'm near the bottom of the valley, I should've seen her by now. Maybe she really did go home?" Since that was the remaining logical place, he started the truck. Back in Philipsburg proper he headed, passing the town's sentinel: an M4 Sherman; specifically an M4A3E8 Sherman, as Rig dutifully informed him whenever they passed by. Rig had problems remembering who he had told which stories to.

"Why am I bothering?" He wondered aloud, turning right onto Locust Street. A double-check of the train tracks and the banks of the Red Moshannon river couldn't hurt. "She's hasn't gone out of her way to show _any_ kind of change or improvement. Still as shiftless, arrogant, stubborn, and selfish as ever…so why am I wasting my time and gas looking for her? I could be at the shop, eating lunch, the hell am I doing? Forget her being a no-return investment, she's a net loss."

'It couldn't be, because you _like her_ , could it?' The annoying little voice in the back of his head sidled up to throw him curve-balls.

'No, we've been over this.' And he was arguing with himself, again.

'No?' The little voice nagged at him. 'Are you sure? Or maybe…oh no, that's not _proper_ , is it?'

'Good Christ, what now?'

'You may say you don't _like_ her, but c'mon. You've thought about **_screwing her_** at least once…right? Or are you gonna lie to yourself?'

'I…whoa. What? No, no! That's…'

'I'll bet she does it like a weasel!'

'Now hang on, hang on! That's Gramps talking about Samejima…how is that remotely relevant?'

'It's the same difference. But hey, just level with yourself; admit to reality. Quite lyin' to yourself, it's not healthy. You're a guy, don't feel bad about what's perfectly natural. You've got needs, right? You notice things, physical things, right? You've got needs, and you've noticed Haruko's got those long, slender legs, that tight ass, and a set of nice, firm tits…and what's wrong with that? Not a damn thing, that's what.'

'Look, I gotta drive alright?'

'And she's always such a _bad_ girl too.'

"What _am_ I doing?!" He shook his head, rattling that little voice back from whence it had come. "It's thoughts like this that get me in troub-OH SHIT." Head finally cleared, a figure wandered in front of the truck. _Cr-ANG!_ The truck shuddered as all the tools in its boxes slid forward at his sudden stop. "Hey! Space Cadet! What's the big idea?! Got a death wish or something?!"

"You had the chance to run me over, and you didn't take it." Haruko, still in the middle of the road, glumly looked his way. "I don't know if I should be relieved, or disappointed."

"Well I'm relieved. Where have you been?"

"Eh. What do you care?" Something was off, wrong. Her body seemed to have withered onto itself, hunching at the shoulders so her form assumed a wilting posture. Hair normally electric with energy hung flat and bright eyes were downcast. She had seen, heard, or done, something that had really shaken her up. There was no way to tell if this was another of her acts, or something warranting concern.

"How do you expect me to answer that? 'Oh, I was worried sick about you'? Or perhaps 'I don't care, that's what.' I'm not some love-struck puppy, and I'm not a psycho; so what do you expect me to say?"

"You're crabby today." She shuffled off the center-line to stand next to his door, letting another car pass. Now they talked through his window.

"And you have a short memory if my crabbiness is a surprise."

"Look, I don't wanna talk about it. I've got enough shit on my mind as is."

"Sure. Sure, just avoid responsibility, just like you do with everything else in your life."

"Ohhh…shut up."

"That's the best you can do? Really? I think you're slipping, retire now while you're still on top."

"So this's what our relationship's come to. Arguing in traffic." She slid her forlorn gaze anywhere but at him, watching the growing grey of the oncoming thunderstorm. Already the breeze was picking up.

"Relationship? From you, that's uniquely delusional."

"Here I was thinking you said you loved me, once upon a time?"

"Uhhgghh…you're really gonna bring…okay." He shifted into neutral and turned the truck off. "Lemme 'xplain this to you, and pay attention 'cause I'm only saying this once. A relationship, is a two-way street, a two-person team training for an event. Both persons have different skills and abilities, but both have to contribute equally in their training. Otherwise one person does all the work, resentment builds, and the team falls apart. Even doing just the bare minimum, if that is all you can do, is preferable to doing nothing. Like, just doing your morning push-ups. Well Haruko, in the first few months I knew you, you did a half-assed bare minimum. To your credit, I was twelve and didn't know any better, so you got away with it. But in the four years since 'till today, you haven't done a single push-up; you couldn't even be bothered to get out of bed. And even if you did, I wouldn't want you on my team anyway. So guess what? You're not on the team anymore, you haven't even been benched; I've thrown you, and all your shit ,out of the field-house. Four years, and not a single push-up. I may have said I loved you back then, maybe even meant it. But I sure's hell don't now."

"Don't hold back, really let me have it, how you really feel." She couldn't, or wouldn't, look at him. Something across the river must have been fascinating. "I don't get it, why do you want to know, about me? Why did you blow up earlier wanting to know about my past?"

"Because somebody has to call you out and tell you that, yes, indeed, your shit really, truly, does stink. And since the Universe has deemed fit to dump you back into my life, it seems that somebody is me."

"That so? Keep up the great work. You're doing such a wonderful job."

"Yeah, screw you too…" Both couldn't look at the other now. She kept watch on the opposite riverbank, while he stared aimlessly down the road. _Plip!_ A teaspoon's worth of rain splashed on the windshield. The edge of the storm was not far off. "Look, it's gonna rain soon, and hard. I know all your stuff's back at the house, and its three miles as the crow flies. So if you want to get all butt-hurt and leave, again, fine. I won't stop you. If you don't want to walk back in the rain, I will drive you back."

"But, there's a 'but' there."

"But, by getting in this truck, you are admitting that you're sorry, I am right, and you are wrong."

"You've got the _weirdest_ kinks. Any other fetishes you wanna tell me about?"

"Is it too much to ask for just once, _just one time_ , that you show some humility? It won't kill you, trust me. I'm not asking you to say anything, no audio or video of you saying 'I'm sorry.' All you have to do is get in. Or walk home, or wherever you'll go this time, in the rain."

"Naota…come on. What's with bustin' my balls like this, huh? It's no way to treat a lady."

"Lady. That's funny." He started the truck and put the gear lever in first, the transmission clunked as it dropped into place. "Either start walkin', or get your ass in the truck."

Without a word, and only a deep sigh, she glared at him and hoisted her guitar up her shoulder. Another deep sigh and she mumbled something to herself. He tapped the gas in a subtle reminder of 'sometime today'. Incredibly, he wished he had a camera rolling, she walked around the front of the truck, opened her door, and after sitting, pulled it meekly closed. All in fuming silence and she refused to look his way; still watching across the river.

"Put your seatbelt on. I don't need you flying through the windshield if we get brake-checked." She clipped in. Satisfied with what he felt to be a tremendous, Earth-axis altering victory, Naota allowed himself a small smile. Over the Red Moshannon bridge he drove them, and down into Chester Hill. He knew this could be yet another performance of hers. But hey, she'd gotten in the truck, hadn't she? And with no major screaming, yelling, emotional trauma, property damage…and that had to count for something.

. . .

Clyde lead us to the hall closet. A bag of potting soil rested against the door, holding the old veneer door in place. He stooped and dug into the bag, pulling out a Ziploc-bagged remote. Very smart of him. No thief would have ever thought of looking in a bag of potting soil. He then opened the closet, aimed the remote, and the back wall of the closet _rotated_ to reveal a hidden set of dark steps.

"You've got a basement down there?!" I had to ask. Being upfront with y'all, this was pretty cool. Clyde may've been as emotionally screwed up as they come, but damn if he wasn't clever.

"The guy who lived here before me was a Y2K nut." Clyde explained, flicking on the bare bulbs and starting down the stairs. "There's actually a lot of people in trailers that have basements dug; maximize their space. Anyway, this guy outfitted his basement as a makeshift bunker."

The 'bunker' was a concreted and brightly lit room almost as large as the trailer above. Certainly designed as a poor man's shelter from Y2K missile launches, it boasted a running ventilation system, racks along the wall to store food and supplies that were now stocked with Clyde's tools of his trade, and a small generator purring in the corner. What the generator was running, however comma, was more impressive. The basement had been turned into a subterranean greenhouse.

A row of raised planting beds, waist high, covered in foot-deep troughs, were obscured with plants. Above them propane fired heat lamps flickered and hummed, while other plants were fed under the buzzing glow of UV lights. I recognized several right away; first the Jack-in-The-Pulpit with cherry tomato berries and all. Potted Suicide Tree, rhododendrons clipped and cut to keep their size manageable, Mountain Laurel, Death Cap mushrooms in a dark corner, a terrarium of Belladonna, and one I could not name offhand, but if I had to guess, I'd have said Water Hemlock. But the known bad actors were all there.

"To be perfectly honest, I am very impressed." Tommy admitted and I agreed. He was browsing Clyde's hard copy versions of books and guides on a workbench. "You seem to have a talent for this sort of thing, shame you've wasted it. Why plants though?"

"Uh, thanks? It's well, something I don't suck at. I can do it myself, let's me test and breed different strains to make better, stronger ones, make them with certain characteristics."

"It gives you a feeling of control, working with the plants." I said.

"Yeah, pretty much." He nodded, looking back and forth at us. "Soooo…now what? You know about all this. Now what?"

"A few more questions before leaving." Tommy started. "That one in the corner. That's Water Hemlock, isn't it?" Clyde nodded it was. "Is that what you used at McDonald's?" Again, Clyde nodded. "See? That was easy, not so bad eh? Alright, next one. How do you get all of this in here, out there, without being seen, or interacting with your helpers?"

"Mail. Seeds, crushed or powdered roots, leaves, and stems all fit nicely in envelopes. I put them in sealed ziplocs, add in a typed up set of instructions, step-by-step, and throw them in the mailbox. Hardly anyone uses mail anymore, all email and everything, so I didn't think anyone would think to go through my mail. And seeing you jokers didn't figure that out, it seems I was right." Ouch, ooh, my pride. Of freakin' course it'd be the mail. A failure of imagination on our part.

"Why the pseudonyms, the fake names?"

"Would you use your real name if you were ordering shit off the Dark Web and Silk Road? Walmart doesn't have Belladonna in their garden center."

"Touche." Point to Clyde. "Who are the guys you were sending stuff to? They need to answer for what they've done as well."

"Can't tell you anything there, except to piss up a rope. All the letters I sent were to P.O. boxes, no name on the envelope. No idea who owns them. You could try the Post Office, but good luck getting anywhere. Did you know you can set up a P.O. box to automatically forward letters to another address, as soon as they arrive? Those guys, if they're any kind of smart, might have three or four boxes in a chain before it gets to them. And there's a reason I've never met them in person. Two reasons, actually." Did he mean us? I think he meant us. Or is it just my paranoia? My tin-foil hat too tight again?

"I didn't know that." Tommy and I both took a mental note about the P.O. boxes. In this modern age, with our fascination on blocking electronic warfare attacks, key encryption and scrambled satellite transmissions, it's easy to forget about simpler analog methods. Think smart, not hard. "The outside influence I mentioned. We call him a 'Man in Black'. What can you tell us about him?"

"Same here, or just 'The Man'. He never gave us a name or anything, so we just address him as 'Sir.' That feels safest. But other than that, not much else to say except he's the real deal. If you've had a talk like this with Craig, I'll bet you know about Medical Mechanica?"

"We're more versed on Medical Mechanica than you could possibly imagine. I've been wondering though, what did The Man tell you when you first met; his orders, plans?"

"That's not fair, I can't tell you about orders and plans."

"Why not?"

"Because he doesn't tell me, or anyone else, any more than exactly what they need to know. The Man has compartmentalization down to an art form."

"Is there anything you can tell us? Anything at all only helps you later on."

"This's just what I've heard, from around, you know? Obviously I'm not the end, by far. The Man's got it all figured out." Clyde puffed up as he talked, proud of his affiliation with such a powerful ally. "A script and everything; Clearfield and Centre counties are to be ground zero."

"A script. That's unique. What did The Man tell you about what he wants?"

"Don't be stupid Carson!" Clyde managed a small smile. "It's everything, the world."

"You…can't be serious?"

"I wouldn't expect you to understand."

"Was there something The Man showed you? How do you know he isn't bullshitting you?" This was something I had failed to ask Craig, and it had been burning a hole in my brain ever since. "Or did you sell out for a fistful of dollars?"

"Now, _that_ is a good question…" A strange glaze shone over his eyes and his face slackened into a dreamy stare at the memory. "Everything in your wildest imagination. I've seen mountain peaks dwarfing Everest, valleys deeper than our oceans, I've seen the edge of the known Galaxy, the riches and power awaiting within its borders, and beyond; the beginning of the uncharted Universe…and all of it could be ours. All we have to do is follow The Red Star."

"Uh…huh…" I shared a 'what kind of Jonestown Punch has he been drinking?' glance. Stories and rumors of Men in Black and their ability to bring others into their fold, are a dime a dozen, but this was a good one. "Did he promise that to everyone? I hope he brought enough Universe to share with the class."

"No, to each their own, mostly power or money, that sort of thing. Protection, safety, immunity too."

"Immunity from what?"

"Remember what I said, how this's a setup? Cole and The Man have been all buddy-buddy lately. They're working on something law related. There's even a rumor going around the police, about contracting some extra help. You know, Private Military types. The Sheriff's department could even deputize whoever's brought in to give them more legal authority. That means, if I were you, I would think seriously about permanently skipping town."

"Funny you should mention skipping town." It was time to let Clyde know what had happened to Craig; and give him an idea of what lay in store for him. "I remember saying the exact same thing to Craig; right before I saw him off."

"What did you do to Craig?! Is he okay?! I swear to God, if you bastards did anything to him, I'm…gonna…" Clyde's teeth clacked together as there began a pounding on the front door. My watch told me we should've had another forty minutes before Cole rolled up. Whoever it was, they were banging on the door hard enough to rattle the windows. Then there was a loud bang, and a thud, as someone kicked the door in and it swung off the wall. Next followed what sounded like six pairs of feet, stomping right above our heads.

. . .

Even with his lights and sirens on, getting back to Philipsburg was taking Cole far too long for his liking. A passing freight train miles long had him stopped and cursing the rolling stock. At last, the final car passed and the crossing arms came up. Across the tracks and alongside the road, stood a familiar figure; smiling at him.

"Morning, Sir." Cole pulled over and rolled down his passenger window. "What are you doing this far out?"

"Looking for you, of course." The Man in Black explained. "Would you be willing to give me a ride back to town?"

"Of course." Cole unlocked the door, allowing The Man to be settled before racing off again. "You said you were looking for me? May I ask why?"

"Of course, you may ask." The Man smiled, leaving Cole on tenterhooks.

"…Why were you looking for me?"

"It's about one of your brothers."

"Which one?"

"I think you know of which one I speak."

. . .

* * *

Evenin' to y'all! First, I must say I missed you, and it's good to be back. Although I had three months, I actually wrote 90% of this chapter, and ALL of Chapter 14, over the past weekend. It's real easy when you put your mind to it, the weather outside is grey and an ongoing 100% humidity (raining haha), you have a freshly opened can of Colombian coffee, and nothing else to do.

My grovelling apologies aside, I am glad I chained myself to my desk and got to writing. Things are getting sporty, and I think we've finally achieved escape velocity from the original version. I've been thinking and day dreaming about what I want to do in different parts of this story down the line, and now I'm where they start coming alive! Ahhhh! So much fun!

You will notice the meeting with Clyde has been substantially different from last time. While I still am a fan of 'Pulp Fiction', shoehorning in that scene was my attempt to cram five pounds of shit into a two pound sack. With everyone having received a make-over, this fits much better with everyone involved, and let's hope Rig and Tommy make it to the other side in one relatively unscathed piece.

The Man in Black is actually one of my top favorite characters to write. He's such an international, no, universal, man of mystery. But I had realized it had never been established WHAT it was that had gotten the City Government and the Cops to throw their lot in with Medical Mechanica...unless y'all were just suspending belief with that, and I needn't have bothered? Oh well, I like the idea of him 'showing the universe' and the whole 'everything The Red Star touches can be yours.'

Speaking of TMIB, it seems they might be victims of their own success, if The Head's fears are true. If anyone is guilty of being certified members of The Tin-Foil Hat Society in this tale, as much as Rig assumes it's surely him, The Priests certainly take the cake. Alex Jones is a piker cowering in their shadow.

We also got to meet Cole...I bet he's a real hoot at parties. 'Course, the parties he'd be interested in typically require you to shave your head and walk around like your knees are locked...not my kinda people, but it works for him I guess. The good Lieutenant Mana Kitsurubami, and her ever vigilant Commander Amarao have made their debut too, and they've been busy the past four years! Mana, I already like. Something about smart girls with an affinity for rifles...mmmmhhhmmm...Ahem. I suspect we shall see them again much more, and soon too.

So that's all, a lot but all. So hustle yer buns on over to the next chapter! It's right there, go on, yah know yah wanna. If you can spare the time for a review, feel free! Thanks again for being such stewards of patience, and thank you for reading!


	14. Chapter 14

Yo! You're back for another round eh? Knew you couldn't stay away. Don't worry friend, don' you worry none. I got just what you need. One big ole FLCL:TPW chapter comin' riiiight up. Huh? You want it done with a basement brawl? Sure, I'll can add that on. Hold up. A side of songs? A double side of songs? Okay, I'll got some almost done in the fryer. AND you want a 'come to Jesus moment' for topping?! What do you think this is, Le Meurice of Paris?! Ah'm kiddin' with yah. So that's: one FLCL chapter with a basement brawl side, a double-song basket, and a 'come to Jesus' moment on top. Food's ready, order up!

* * *

. . .

We'd run out of time. Clyde's henchmen, hoods, lackeys, winged monkeys, whatever-yah-call-em, had shown up, and Tommy and I were stuck in the basement. Can you say: FUUUUUUUUUUUCCCCCKKKKKK me?

"Yoooo-hooo…Clyde!" One called, the footsteps beginning to disperse into the trailer. "Clydie-Clyde-Clyde!"

"Where are yooouuu…"

"Hey! Check it out mang. Clyde's got himself a secret room here. You down there?" I glanced over at Tommy and was not immensely relieved at what I saw. His eyes had widened to gather as much of the dim light as they could, his jaw had locked tight with canines bared, and his hands had settled on his belt; his right hand at his four o'clock next to the Glock tucked inside his waistband. He caught my gaze and gave his head a small shake. That meant 'No. Stay as you are, wait and see.' To be safe, I took up the same posture and made sure my back was against the wall. That way, none of them could get behind me.

"Whoaaaa…uh, hey guys. What're you doing here, of all places, and times?" Clyde seemed just as surprised and uneasy as we did with his new guests. "I thought we agreed never to meet face-to-face?"

"Change of plans." The first one explained as he slouched down the stairs. Six in all, they were a trouble-struck group. The first one, doing most of the talking, played with the clip of a pocketknife on his right side. He'll be Knifeman, and my chief worry. The best way to describe their overall appearance, in clothes, physique, and behavior, would be…meth-y. Meth-ish. Meth-kin. Meth. Lots-ah meth, is what I'm sayin'. Two appeared related, cousins at least, as they had the same jug handle ears and vacant expressions. Henceforth, they'll be known as Tweedle-Dee, and Tweedle-Dum. One with a heavy brow and permanent scowl, skulked in the background. He'll be known as Shady; don't worry, no relation to Slim. At minimum, if my meth description is true, one was a heroin user. The tell-tale tract marks patterned his elbows and fingertips. We'll just call him Junky. Another was indeed a meth user, and stood on the bottom stair, picking the scabs off his sores. Let's dub him Scabs, because by that point, I wasn't feeling creative anymore. So, this was the cobbled together crew Carl, Cole, and Caleb had scraped off some sidewalk. Compared to them, Conwell didn't seem too bad.

"Cole told us to hold you here until he shows up. You're a dead man Tubby; don' know what you did, but Cole's _piiissssed._ "

"Oh, that's really not necessary…" Since Clyde had been mailing out his seeds or plants, this must've been the first time he'd met his helpers in person. He looked as scared as I felt. "How about I just call Cole myself, and get, whatever this is, straightened out?"

"Can…can he do that?" They discussed among themselves. While five debated, Knifeman turned to Tommy and me. "…'The fuck are you?"

"No one of consequence." I replied with a forced smile.

"C'mon…I gotta know."

"Get used to disappointment."

"They're the real reason you guys should be here!" Wh…what. In the actual hell. Clyde?! Did you not hear Tommy and I say 'We are your best chance'? Or do you think you're gonna wriggle outta this?! "Don't you know them, why they're here?!" Now six pairs of eyes were off Clyde, and on us.

"No…that's why I asked Smartass over there." Knifeman's namesake came out of his pocket and aimed it at me. "Who are they? Enlighten us."

"They're Tommy and Jeff Carson." A few eyebrows went up. Either the Carson Family Brand was bigger than we thought, or they'd been cued in to look out for us. "And they're know all about what we've done, stole a bunch of shit off my computer…"

" _Pirated._ " Must I continue to point that out?

"Fuck. You. Jeff. These guys are acting like their some kinda secret cops or something; wannabe F.B.I. or some shit. They know everything about us!" Welp…thanks Clyde. Yah've fucked us. Hope you're happy.

Now there were too many bodies to watch, too many moving hands. Clyde shuffled off to the side, pawing for something on a workbench. He was not a concern for the next few minutes, or moments; depending on how this went. Adrenaline was already doin' its thing and flooding in. Every hammerstroke of my heart pushed against my chest. I could even perceive my eyes widening like Tommy's had, the tension coiling in my muscles, and the singing of blood in my ears. The oddest thing was how clear my mind had gotten. Your brain has a funny way of setting aside stray thoughts when confronted with The Six Merry Clones of Trevor Phillips.

"Clyde, I think you should make that call." Knifeman suggested.

"I can't down here, no reception."

"Then go upstairs, with Rob and Kenny. Nothing funny, and if he tries, beat his face in." Clyde trooped upstairs with Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum right behind him. This was going from bad to worse, and would be worse still once that call was made. To stop it, we'd have to fight through four tweekers, get up the stairs, two more that looked like the possessed mad retard-strength (look it up), then get Clyde; assuming he was dumb enough to just stand there, which he was not. Tommy, if there ever was a good time to fight back, it was now…Wait. Wait a second. With Clyde moved, I could see what he'd been rooting around for on the bench. Fungus Identification Kit. Warning: Contains Potassium Hydroxide. That's KOH, and if I remember basic chemistry…that's…LYE!

"What the fuuaaAAACKKKK! AUUUUGGHHHH! IT BURNSS!"

"You sunova-HEEAAAAUUUOOOOGGHHHH…GET IT OFF MEEE!" Two screams broke out, followed by several bodily thuds, stamping of feet, a sharp crack of something hitting a wall, then the front door banged again, all as Clyde made his escape. Then, things got… _kinetic._

"RIG! DEFEND YOURSELF!" Tommy gave the only order needed and drew his gun. Because of the tables, and cramped nature of the basement, they could only come at us in pairs. Shady charged Tommy, and Knifeman at me; the other two right behind them. Having drawn first, Tommy fired first. The report of three 0.45 caliber rounds in that basement rendered all of us deaf. What would have sounded like _PACK! PACK! PACK!_ On the range, turned into **_BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!_** Followed by nothing but painful ringing. Each of those three slugs struck their target: an imaginary circle the size of your fist, right between Shady's nipples. Tommy had loaded his Glock 21 with 230-grain Winchester T-Series +P rounds, each a hollow-pointed, hefty slug that burrowed into Shady's sternum at a slow 'n' steady 900 feet per second. The bullets mushroomed open along the pre-cut lines in their copper jackets, expanding to nearly an inch across. Dragging the crushed sternum shards, half of five ribs, the bullets set off a hydrostatic shock that turned Shady's heart into a jellified mush and blew out both of his lungs. Having dumped all of their kinetic energy into their target, two bullets stopped shy of exiting Shady's back, while the third came to a rest against his spine; destroying all muscle control from the shoulders to the feet. Shady fell without a struggle, landing face-first on the rough concrete, thoroughly dead before he hit the ground.

I had drawn slower, so by the time I fired, it was at point-blank range. Knifeman's blade flickered as the glow of UV lamps reflected off it. He had it in his right hand in a thrusting grip. As it snaked forward, I side-stepped and shoved his right hand aside with my left, and extended my right, pistol, hand forward to mash the muzzle just above his solar plexus. I shoved back to separate us, before he could slip his right arm free of my left hand and disembowel me, and as soon as his body flinched in reaction, I pulled the trigger.

At this range, with the muzzle against Knifeman's body, you would expect the gun's report to be muffled, and you'd be correct…kinda. Some gas did escape between the small gap between the cylinder and barrel; it's the same with any revolver. So there was a small bang, but more of a _TAH!_ Instead of the usual _Ka-BLAM!_ But, all of the burning powder that would have gone out the muzzle still had to go _somewhere_.

This meant not only did the bullet enter Knifeman's chest, but so did all the burning powder and high-pressure gases behind the bullet. This combination had the same effect as detonating a small explosive in the neighborhood of his heart; as the angle I had fired at was upwards of 45-degrees. The bottom half of his sternum, the ends of six ribs, his left lung, and heart, were instantly destroyed. This slurry of pulverized bits also had to go somewhere, and sloshed down onto Knifeman's diaphragm, leaving behind a wound cavity the size of a cantaloupe. He too was dead before hitting the floor, but his momentum carried his body onto me, and slammed me against the wall. The front sight of my Ruger snagged on the entrance wound it had created, and as I struggled to stay upright, Knifeman's body saw my right wrist twisted, and wrenched my gun from my hand.

Meanwhile, Junky the heroin user, had closed distance to Tommy. The Glock 21 fired with a muffled _PAHN!_ Against Junky's upper left shoulder. The bullet smashed its way through a clavicle, deltoid, and then blew out through the shoulder blade, dragging a baseball sized wad of blood, bone, muscle, and gore with it before shattering itself against a steel support column; the wet and red bits spattered to repaint half the wall. But because of Junky's impact against the gun, it did not cycle properly, and being a semi-automatic, the empty casing stove-piped in the ejection port. While his left arm was useless, _in theory_ because grievously crippling wounds don't apply to addicts, Junky still managed to knock Tommy over and began punching every part of Tommy he could reach; who was busy trying to clear his gun.

As soon as I had extracted myself from under Knifeman, the leprous meth-head Scabs, grabbed me around the waist and tossed, _TOSSED_ , me across the basement. My landing was first on a raised growing bed, and my flailing knocked over several hot lamps and pulled down half the UV lights; throwing the room into a pattern of odd shadows. Oddly, that did not help at all. The growing bed, not built for my weight, collapsed and dumped me onto the floor against a workbench. A bag of ammonium nitrate fertilizer was catapulted off at my introduction to its bench, and it burst open in a billowing cloud of finely powdered dust that hung in the air.

Scabs shoved aside a workbench and leaped for my throat. By now _MY_ knife was out. With a swing of a Kershaw Thermite, a gash opened up his left hand from the bottom corner opposite his thumb, across his palm and all up his index finger to the very tip. Oh dear God, did he scream. All those nerves cut at once, down to the bone…Jesus H. Christ did he scream…even today it makes my skin crawl.

That got Scabs to back off for a moment, just in time for Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum to come stumbling back downstairs to see what all the damn noise was about. Both had gotten a good splash of lye, one across half his face and neck, the other all down an arm and shoulder. Patches of shiny pink and raw skin were contrasted with crusted, pale-white and pus-oozing dead skin, and from across the room I could smell the stench of their wounds, and the chemical fumes.

Tweedle-Dee caught Junky's body, as Tommy threw him off and stooped to pick up his pistol. With the gun still jammed, Tweedle-Dee rushed Tommy, bellowing with both fists raised. Tommy punched with his jammed, but not useless, Glock and connected the muzzle with Tweedle-Dee's throat: crushing his thyroid gland, and collapsing his windpipe with a _CR-UNCH!_ I heard crisply across the room; think of breaking a bundle of uncooked spaghetti in half. Tweedle-Dee's hands clasped his neck as he struggled to breathe and Tommy followed up with another punch, his left fist smashing into Tweedle-Dee's right cheek. Tweedle-Dee dropped one fist to swing a feral left. Tommy blocked it, using his gun to hook and push down the incoming arm, then used the motion to swing his left elbow onto Tweedle-Dee's right jaw; putting a hairline crack in it. Tweedle-Dee stumbled backwards, doubled-over. He made the mistake of standing upright and Tommy planted his left fist again to fracture the jaw. Tweedle-Dee's head snapped back and to the left, his weight resting on his heels. With the butt of his pistol, Tommy clubbed Tweedle-Dee's left jaw and dislocated it entirely. Finishing up he delivered a booted heel to Tweedle-Dee's diaphragm, causing it to begin hemorrhaging, and the force collapsed Tweedle-Dee against the wall in a crumpled ball.

Tweedle-Dum tried his luck with me, but half of the left side of his face was swelling into what resembled a fresh-outta-the-oven baked ham, and that side's eye was nearly swollen over. So, that's the side I went for. My knife I held in my right hand, in a Hammer grip. Keep in mind that trying to stab the face isn't a good idea. Your skull is surprisingly robust, and sticking the blade directly in his eye is million to one odds. Instead, I punched and hit just below his zygomatic arch to avoid shredding my knuckles on that sharp bone. As I pulled my arm back, I slashed down with the blade over his eye and along his face. If I didn't cut the eye directly, the flow of blood would still ensure it blinded.

Next I stepped forward with my left foot to put myself inside the zone he could punch in. Now he would have to either back up to create space, or swing haymakers. Guess which one he proceeded to do? A right haymaker swung towards my temple, and I hurried to block it with my left forearm. His fist missed me, but his forearm still cracked against my ear, pinching it between his arm and my skull, rupturing a small seam near the top; and he made my eyes water too. If my ears weren't ringing before, they sure were now. Blinking out tears, I just managed to avoid a full-face hit to my nose, instead taking it on a glance across my cheek bone; that zygomatic arch. The thin layer of skin over it split wide open and blood began flowing across my face and down my jaw. But to get that hit in, Tweedle-Dum had over-extended his left arm, exposing his armpit. I sank my knife up to the grip, four inches of steel into his armpit, and if the decompressing _Whoosh!_ Was any indicator, punctured his lung in the process. Tweedle-Dee sank slowly with spluttering wheezes, his lips flecked with red as he began drowning in his own blood.

Tommy and Junky had clashed again, and locked together, ran past me and crashed into the wall. Junky landed on the generator, yelping as he put his hands on the heated metal. Shoving himself off, he overturned the generator. While it still ran, fuel began leaking from the now loosened fuel cap. Tommy had hit the wall at full speed and now lay flat on his back, gasping for the wind that had been knocked out of him. He was able to clear his pistol and chambered a new round before Junky stood up. With Junky leaning over him, Tommy fired a rapid hammered pair. The first one hit Junky's neck. This round hit just right of the windpipe, instead expanding into the bundle of muscles that helped move Junky's head, and the jugular artery that supplied his brain with blood. While a great deal of hydrostatic shock was not generated, the Glock's muzzle blast and the expanding hollowpoint ripped flesh away from the jaw to collar and right to the spine; opening up a steady thumb-sized flow of blood that would see Junky bled dry. This bullet hit the ceiling above and did not retain enough energy to punch through. The second shot missed completely. It did punch through the ceiling, floor, the sheet metal baseplate of the kitchen stove, and stopped in the oven's roof. Along the way, it clipped the connection hose for the 250-gallon tank of propane gas at the back of Clyde's trailer. A small, steady stream of gas began leaking into the kitchen.

When Tweedle-Dum went down, he had clenched his arm down on my hand, pinning it there unless I released my knife. With Scabs starting towards me again, my head still swimming, ear split, cheek bleeding, and eyes still tearing up from Tweedle-Dum's one-two punches, I left the knife in exchange for distance; and looking for my gun. Scabs and I spotted it, next to Knifeman, at the same time. We both took running leaps and his reach was just a little farther. But his hands were slicked with blood and my revolver popped free of his hands like a bar of soap. I was able to palm it, but not get my finger inside the trigger guard. I rolled to get away from Scabs and came up against the wall. He was only on one knee, and off balance. Using the wall as a base, I shoved off it and slammed my shoulder into Scab's.

He was knocked sideways, landing on his left side with me on top of him. Then he made a fatal error. Rather than clocking me with his left fist, which would have knocked me stone cold at that moment, he took one second to look around for anything he could use as a weapon. A bottle, brick, knife, piece of wood, even a clod of dirt may have worked it he'd hocked it hard enough. But it was a second he did not have to waste. Instead, I pounded his head with my gun's muzzle, drew back and hit again. The GP100's barrel plunged into Scab's right eye socket just as I got my finger inside the trigger guard. The second impact caused my hand to clench, and I pulled the trigger doing so.

For a second time, the gunshot was contained. Recall though, how I said your skull is surprisingly robust. It is also much smaller and less elastic than a chest cavity. So now the burning powder and high pressure gases were released into a box of thick bone. Fluid dynamics demanded the hydrostatic shock, and Scab's brain, had to be displaced _somewhere, somehow_ , and preferably along the path of least resistance. And were they.

My Ruger GP100, if you remember the end of Chapter 8, is loaded with 125-grain Hornady XTP JHP's. They are not as heavy or as large as Tommy's 0.45's, but much faster at 1,600 FPS; and with much more gas and powder behind them. This, combined with the characteristics of Scabs' skull, first severed the left optic nerve. Second, it blew Scabs' left eyeball out of his head. It bounced off the wall and rolled to a stop ten feet away. Third, brain matter followed the eye. Fourth, a small amount of grey bits were forced out of Scabs' nose and ears. Fifth and finally, the balance of brain burst out with the bullet through the occipital region and splattered in a fan patterned mess across the floor.

Heaving and feeling my breakfast rising up my throat, I scrambled away from Scabs' body. I had tried before to imagine how seeing a body, especially one I had killed, would affect me. The sight of brains spilling out and an eyeball popping loose was almost too much to handle and I felt even more lightheaded and faint. The smell rapidly filling the basement wasn't helping either. But processing what had happened was to be done later.

"Ohhhuhhhgghh…Rig…Rig, sound off…"

"I'm up, and…" I scanned the roof, revolver now up in a proper grip. I checked each body for vital signs, and collected my knife. "We are clear. You?"

"I'm fucked up, but I'm up." He stood and leaned heavily against the wall. Having fired six of his magazine's ten rounds, Tommy reloaded and put the half-empty magazine in his pocket. "Ohhh…fuck. Fuckity-fuck-fuck. This did, not go well. This is a bad day. A terrible, no-good, very bad, day."

"No shit. So, I mean, okay…now…" I trailed off, trying to think of what to do next. This was certainly _not_ in the manual, had not been covered in the Non-Commissioned Officer's school in D.C., and was far outside my usual programming. How to deal with a basement of dead bodies – 101.

"Rig…yo, Rig!" Tommy gave me a rough shake. I must have zoned out. Only then did the pain start to creep in, starting with my face. Oh man did my split cheek sting. "Hey, come back to Earth."

"Sorry, sorry…zoned out…"

"That's fine, but don't do it again. I need you to focus. We only have a few minutes, and no chance for do-overs. Are you okay, are you hit, shot, stabbed anywhere?" We checked ourselves and each other for blood, stuck knives or broken bones. All seemed well. "Good. Now listen up. Here's what we're gonna do. You're gonna go upstairs and look for anything valuable to us. Make another copy of Clyde's computer to be safe. Look for photos, external hard drives, phones, tapes, lists of people or orders, anything like that."

"Any intel, and copy the computer. Got it. Anything else?"

"Weapons, we cannot leave any here for whoever comes next. Pistols, shotguns, rifles, bazookas, grenades, missile launchers, explosives, tactical nukes, and any ammo. Put whatever you find by the front door, and my laptop, and then come back here."

"And you?"

"I'll be…" He looked down and around at the mess we'd made. I don't need any metaphors or simile here, you know what a destroyed basement greenhouse with six dead guys in it looks like…right? Right. Moving on. "Dealing with…this. So are we clear?"

"Yep."

"You have five minutes. Be efficient."

I took the stairs three at a time and headed for Clyde's computer. The copying could run in the background while I searched. My first discovery was Clyde's phone with a freshly cracked screen. A hole in the wall marked where it had been thrown in Clyde's escape. On the floor still smoldered and fumed a puddle of lye, eating into the carpet; the empty bottle next to it. Only then did it occur to me, that bottle of lye had probably been intended for Tommy and me. But hey, that's one way to make your getaway. And sure enough, as I checked outside to see if any neighbors were coming to investigate anything they might've heard, Clyde's car was gone. At least he didn't have his phone to call Cole with.

For the next five minutes, I proceeded to demolish the interior of Clyde's trailer. Every cupboard was emptied, the dishes smashing on the linoleum. I ripped out every heat register, cut open the couch and its cushions, pulled up the carpet, and even emptied the fridge and freezer. The baseboards all came off, the toilet tank lid lay broken in the shower, the bathroom mirror ripped off the wall, and even the vent from the bathroom's vent was broken loose and searched. The mattress and box springs went the same as the couch. Every dresser drawer was upended, and the closet fully emptied into a mound on the floor. In summary, I was rewarded with: one updated external hard drive, the CPU and hard drives of Clyde's computer (there was no way we were leaving those behind with Ice Pick fingerprints all over them), several quart sized Mason jars of readied seeds, poisons, and berries, two USB flash drives (no idea what was on them), about $25,000 dollars in $100 bills, a loaded Hi-Point 9mm semi-automatic pistol, three spare 8-shot magazines (loaded), two 50-round boxes of Remington 9x19mm factory loaded FMJ bullets, and a decorative (but still very sharp and deadly) Legend of Zelda Master Sword.

Downstairs, Tommy had arranged the deceased in an orderly row, respectfully closed their eyes and crossed their arms across their chests. He'd collected only two small penknives, and Knifeman's Flick Blade. Also on the table were their cell phones, one was hooked to his to make a copy of its contents, and a few hundred dollars in mixed American bills. We don't touch credit or debit cards, SSN's, Selective Service Cards, driver's licenses or anything like that. Most of it we don't have any use for, some of it could land us in needless legal trouble, and some, like photos or mementos, is a matter of ethics. You DO NOT steal pictures of a man's family, dog, cat, house, or love notes from his girlfriend. Those they keep. It's the least that can be done.

"I'm done." Tommy disconnected the last phone. He placed it on Junky's stomach. "Did you find anything? You made a lot of noise."

"A few things, nothing Earth-shattering."

"Very good, you did well. Okay, time to leave. Put all this and what you found in the truck, I'll be right out."

"What're you going to do?" I asked as he gathered several of the propane tanks. "Are you…?"

"Rig, our DNA is everywhere. Hair, blood, sweat, fingerprints, saliva. The police will be here any second, and I _refuse_ to make their job easy. Besides, we have to get rid of all these plants, seeds, even the books on how to grow it. I don't want Caleb slinking in here and getting his stained little paws all over this. Fire is the only way."

"I, I know, it just doesn't…" I looked at the row of bodies, the streaks of blood, bile and brain across the floor from Tommy moving them around, the stench from them filling the room. Sure, we'd just fought tooth and nail…but burning them felt wrong.

"I know it doesn't feel right." Tommy admitted. "I don't like it either, I take no joy in this. But I like myself, and especially you, not being in jail, a lot more than I dislike doing this. And, can't you smell it?" I hadn't noticed it over the bodies, but now the fumes of propane were beginning to overpower them. There was a gas leak somewhere. "This place is filled with propane, it's going to go up anyway. I'm just making sure it does so properly."

"That's fair enough for me. See you in the truck." Tommy nodded and went about his grim work. I loaded our findings and sat with even more rising bile in my throat. To keep my mind occupied from what had happened and what we had done, I went to my oldest fallback.

'2.1*2=4.2. 2.2*2.1=4.62. 2.3*2.2=5.06. 2.4*2.3=5.52...6.8*6.7=45.56. 6.9*6.8=46.92…'

"Okay, that's all set." Tommy got in, started up and took a quick glance around. "Anyone watching, anyone see us?" The thought had occurred to me to search the extra two vehicles in Clyde's driveway. But that could attract even more attention to the noise that surely had escaped the trailer. There probably wasn't anything in those cars to justify the risk.

"No, we're in the clear." As Tommy gave his S-10 gas, several rain drops pattered on the windshield. "Will the rain mess up whatever fire you planned?"

"No buddy, it won't." Tommy looked back at the trailer. No smoke or any tell-tale signs emanated. "We'll be okay, don't worry about it."

"If you say so. What about Clyde though? He got away, could be halfway to Ohio by now."

"I think…the best thing to do right now…" Tommy, for a brief moment, sounded exhausted. The day had beaten both of us down. "Is to just go home, and wait for this storm to pass."

. . .

By the time Tommy and Jeff had left his trailer, Clyde was already at the first trees of Black Moshannon Forest. His escape had been an improvised one, but waiting around for a furious Cole held no upside. There was also the possibility his six helpers were beating the ever-loving fuck out of Tommy and Jeff, and that gave Clyde a measure of comfort. It had to, as he'd eaten the last of his snacks in his car's console.

'Still…can't go home just yet.' He'd driven as a man possessed, running stop lights and signs alike. One blink and he was fumbling with his keys, another blink and he was on the far side of the Black Moshannon River, in the visitor center's parking lot. There he realized several glaring issues. He had no cash, Cole and the police could trace any use of his cards. He had no friends to call on, and his other brothers wouldn't touch him with a ten foot pole if he'd made Cole's shit-list. He'd left his gun in his nightstand drawer, never carrying it on him since he hardly left his trailer; and guns weren't his style anyway. And last, his phone was on his living room floor. One of the two assigned to guard him had grabbed at his arm, while Clyde doused the other with lye, and the phone was sent flying from his hand to bounce off the wall and disappear behind the couch.

'And holy damn, is it raining.' The storm had arrived and was unloading its rain in a relentless torrent. Lightning spider webs across the clouds lit the land, and thunder shook his car with its power. This could actually work in his favor though. No one was going to venture out into this downpour to look for him. 'I should drive around for a bit though. Cole always said a moving target is hardest to pin down. I'll think of what to do in the meantime.'

. . .

At Clyde's trailer, several things had gone wrong, or right depending on your view. First, the propane leak from the stove had filled the entirety of the basement and half the trailer with fumes; as propane is a heavier than air gas. The swirling fumes had also saturated the air with the powdered ammonium nitrate Tommy had spread all around the basement and trailer, all mixed up by the pair of box fans Tommy had running. Now sifting clouds of the fertilizer hazed the light as a fine dust. Tommy had also shut off the basement's ventilation fan, but did not close the vent grating. This allowed vapors from the generator to build, as well as fumes from its leaking gasoline. Since the vent grating was still open, air could flow into the basement and add the necessary oxygen to the volatile mixture. Tommy had also opened the remaining propane cylinders in the basement after shutting off the heat lamps and UV lights. Before leaving, he still had one task to complete.

In the ransacked kitchen, he located Clyde's toaster on the pile of emptied cupboard contents, a pack of strawberry poptarts, and a roll of duct tape from the up-ended junk drawer. He dropped the poptarts into the toaster, duct taped the lever down so even when the timer tripped it would continue cooking. He shoved the toaster against the wall, making sure it was under the flakewood veneered cabinets. This crude fuse would give him and Rig about five minutes to make themselves scarce.

. . .

Cole and The Man in Black arrived shortly after. The missed the Carsons by a matter of minutes. All seemed normal to both, and Cole noticed the new cars in Clyde's driveway. But something was missing.

"Clyde's car isn't here." Cole slowed as he passed, the driveway was mostly full so he didn't pull in. "But the guys we hired are here…something's not right."

"I agree." The Man in Black gave his pocketwatch a quick glance. "Let's wait by that dumpster and see what develops." Cole parked his cruiser in the same spot Naota and Haruko had occupied. He thought about calling Clyde, then about requesting backup, but decided to be patient. Meanwhile, The Man in Black insisted on small talk to pass the time.

"Tell me, why did you become a police officer?" He asked, turning in his seat to face Cole. "It was not your first career choice. That was a drill-crew supervisor for Solomon's Mines, correct?"

"That is correct. Do you want the 'acceptable' answer, or the 'real' answer?"

"I like the sound of this already." The Man grinned at the duality of Cole's occupational choices. "Tell me the 'acceptable' reason first, and your 'real' reason after."

"The 'acceptable' reason is what you will see and hear in newspapers, on our televisions, at announcements from our governments. Responsibility, integrity, a feeling of higher calling, or my personal favorite, the 'giving back to the community' lie. There are some who genuinely believe these simple-minded ideas, but I'm a realist."

"No sense of civic obligation then?"

"Not in the least."

"I cannot imagine it is for the money. Your salary is only, sixty-thousand American dollars, if I remember rightly; and is just above average for this country."

"Correct, but you are leaving out cash from any drug busts we make, any cash confiscated through civil asset forfeiture, and the profits we make selling off the confiscated C.A.F. items. A department eats very well selling some schmuck's pickup truck, yacht, or airplane. How do you think we bought our M.R.A.P. vehicles before you arrived? They run a million dollars a unit and we had six; three from D.H.S. and three with our own money. Funded by the citizens of The Commonwealth."

"Even with your supplemental income, it's not about money? I feel we're getting to the 'real' reason."

"Isn't it obvious? It's why you contacted me first of all my brothers: Power." At the utterance of this word, The Man in Black's smile widened into a toothy grin. "Pure…power; the same reason the Mayors, County Clerks, Judges, Sheriff and his deputies, all went into your offer elbow deep. We are uninterested in money. Our positions as public officials and officers allowed us to manipulate, design, and scam, the pension systems. All founded by the taxpayer mind you, who are too lazy and too stupid to notice, or care. And if any of them ever get uppity, their house gets raided at four in the morning, their records audited 'till before they were born, we bury them in court and legal fees, their truck is seized; and sometimes their dog gets shot too. Just because we can. But all of us can retire at the ripe age of fifty and live for another twenty to thirty years on a pension of six figures a year; if you play the paperwork right. So what else is left when your material and financial cares are provided for? You can only buy so much stuff, take so many vacations, eat so much caviar, before it all becomes a bore."

"And power is what is left."

"Yes. This uniform, this badge, grants me that power. The Office of The Mayor, grants him power. Power over events, places, projects we wish to see enacted, but best of all: The Lives of Others. If I may be so bold, I would say that is part of The Temple of Syrinx, and its teachings you have revealed to us. The people of my planet are lost and wandering, without a guiding authority. We, and The Red Star, must be that authority to save the people from themselves; while getting our fix. To shape ideas, people's views, mold their outlooks, biases and behaviors, directing entire societies, just as this country's representatives and their _true_ constituents do…is a high beyond price, and without equal."

"I knew I had chosen a fitting first contact." The Man in Black praised Cole for his speech. "Just be sure not to let that lure distract you, or forget who _your_ true constituent is. Am I clear?"

"Yes, Sir. I know my place in all That is To Come."

"You will be held to it. I believe we have waited long enough. Let's make ourselves known."

"Follow me then." Cole drove around back to the sidewalk spot and parked. "I just hope Clyde's not hiding in his basement. Breaking down that door would take the bomb squad."

"I don't think that will be necc…" The Man did not get to finish. The poptarts Tommy Carson had put in the toaster, were now on fire. Flames from the poptarts' oils then caught the flakewood and glue and plastic covered cabinets on fire, and in a minute, half of Clyde's kitchen was ablaze. A few seconds later, the propane leaking from the stove ignited. It flashed into a trailer-filling fireball and followed its own trail down the hidden stairs to the basement. There it combined with the even more powerful gasoline fumes. Additionally, the suspended ammonium nitrate formed a crude ANFO, ammonium nitrate fuel oil, explosive, with the ammonium nitrate acting as a fine oxidizer. The perfect combination of dispersed dust, ignition from the toaster, oxygen from air flowing in from the vents, the propane and gasoline as fuel, and the confinement of the basement, created an explosion heard in the town of Sandy Ridge; five and a half miles south. This explosion's force lifted the trailer off its foundation before blowing off the roof, out the windows first, then the walls, and scattering the contents within around Water Street Mobile Homes in a two-hundred yard radius; Clyde's computer splashing down and sinking into the Red Moshannon River while his TV shattered on Water Street itself, and the toaster that started it all was later found on the park's office roof. The shrapnel had also punctured the main 250-gallon tank of propane, which cooked off and added a secondary burst of fire and its own shock wave.

The twin shock waves blew out half the surrounding windows and set off over a dozen car alarms. It also bowled Cole and The Man in Black over, knocking Cole to the street and The Man onto the hood of Cole's cruiser. With their ears ringing and car alarms blaring, they dusted themselves off and were relieved to be uninjured. While The Man's hat had blown off to reveal a head of slicked back, neatly arranged in 1950's style, jet-black hair, his sunglasses dutifully maintained their perch on his nose. Cole decided it would be prudent to call for backup after all.

"Attention all units in Philipsburg area, attention all Philipsburg units. Officer requires immediate assistance. 10-52F and 10-80 at Water Steer Homes. 10-79 possible. Send Fire, E.M.S., and E.O.D., 10-39 advised." Cole put out the call for a fire and explosion, and since secondary explosions were possible, requested the Explosive Ordnance Disposal team to be safe; while advising everyone to use lights and sirens to arrive before _another_ explosion. He needn't have worried, already Mother Nature was putting out the flames with the now arrived thunderstorm. By the time the fire trucks arrived, the raging pyre was reduced to steaming ashes.

"Where's your brother, Clyde?" Fire Chief H.G. Hughes asked Cole after conferring with his men and leaving them to their work. "I'm sure he'll want to know what happened…and maybe begin explaining why he had six bodies in his basement?"

"Explain the what?!" Cole had known there was a good chance the six hired hands had gone up in the explosion, and had thought Clyde might have been with them. But he could not let on to any prior knowledge of them being there. "Bodies?! One isn't Clyde, is it?"

"We don't think so, at least right now. None were burned completely, so I can say reasonably none were him; don't match his physical profile." Chief Hughes led Cole over to the edge of the hole that had been the basement. A team was working in it, trying to determine the fire's source and cause. Pointing to one of the bodies, Chief Hughes said: "This's very strange. Notice how they're all lying down, in a row? That was what I saw first. Also, the second body from right. Waymire says the body's skull has an exit wound out the occipital region consistent with a gunshot wound; like he'd been shot in the eye socket at point-blank range." Chief Hughes looked up from the basement at Cole. "I don't know what your brother was up to today…but it looks very, _very_ bad for him. We'll let you know anything else we find as soon as possible. In the meantime, I'd start looking for Clyde; if I were you."

"Thank you Chief, I will." Confused, angry, and now wracked with paranoia, he turned away from Chief Hughes and walked briskly back to his cruiser. The Man was leaning on the hood, watching the proceedings with rapt curiosity. "Sir, we need to go. Clyde's assistants were…"

"In the basement, and one has been shot, yes. I heard it all." The Man tapped one of his ears. Cole had forgotten how heightened of hearing The Man possessed. "But you and I have a different matter to attend to."

"Sir? I mean no offense, but what could that be?" The Man motioned for Cole to get into the cruiser; what he had to say needed to be said privately. Once seated, he ordered Cole to drive them away from Water Steet, and head east.

"It is time for the next act in What is To Come." The Man explained. "Call up your fellow Patrolmen, the City Police, and the Sheriff and his Deputies."

"ALL, of them, Sir? Do you mean we are…?"

"Yes, we are. Although unfortunate and unseen, this latest incident is a perfect event for the next step. Call all officers to your State Patrol Barracks, and tell them to come with haste. I must address them in person."

"With pleasure Sir, with pleasure!" Cole stopped the pressure on his radio's push to talk button. "What about Clyde? May I send out at least one patrol?"

"Do not worry any further for Clyde." The Man assured, pulling out his pocketwatch. He put his thumb to the smallest face, the one at the bottom of the main face, and closed his eyes. A blink of time later, he opened them and stowed his pocketwatch. "Clyde will be found, I swear to you he will."

. . .

"Hey Rig, are we still on to jam tonight?" Naota and Haruko had gone back to G&R, and spent the afternoon helping Josh, Johnny, and Mike building tool lockers for a construction company. Haruko had remained sullen the whole time, keeping her thoughts to herself. Every five minutes one of the others would pull Naota aside and ask: 'Okay, what the hell did you do? Is it some kind of spell, curse, potion? Why is she being so quiet?' Back home, she'd gone up to their room, breezing past Kamon and Shingekuni like they were part of the wall. Again Naota was interrogated with no good answer handy. They'd bickered before but she'd never been this surly after.

Meanwhile, Tommy and Rig had come back, with Tommy leaving again as soon as he dropped Rig off at his house. Rita had said Rig was feeling 'a little off-color' and Tommy had some 'emergency customer service call' to make. She suggested Naota wait until after work and see how Rig felt then.

"If you're not, that's okay. But, I kinda need to know if I have to talk to Haruko, or not."

"N, nah, no, I'm okay. Uhhgg…" Whether Rig was delirious, half-asleep, or drunk, Naota couldn't quite tell. "Ohhh…cripes, my head…uh, yeah, yeah, I'm okay."

"Are you _sure?_ "

"Mmmmnnn…yep."

"Are you _sure_ , that you are _sure_?"

"As can be. Look, I know I sound weird. Just come on over and, well, you'll understand. Bring your bass of course…and, I suppose…She-Who-Shan't-Be-Named can come too."

"We'll be right down." Naota hung up and called upstairs for Haruko. "Hey! I'm going to Rig's to play some guitar, and you're invited. Do you want to go, or not?"

"…Do you _want_ me to go?" Her voice sounded like she was face-first on her pillow. "Or are you just being polite?"

"I really could not care less either way. I'm absolutely, apathetic."

"…Be right down." Still in a melancholy mood, she stumped on down. "Did you find out what the deal was with Rig not feeling good?" Over her left shoulder hung her guitar. On the right, cables, pedals and a bag with her tuner, string winders and cutters, wrenches, screwdrivers, capo clamps, picks, extra strings, cleaning cloths and fluids, a Batt-O-Meter, metronome, adapters, cable tester, an Ohm-meter, and a roll of duct tape. He knew the contents because he had a similar bag; and the insides of hers were more often than not strewn across the bedroom floor.

"No, I didn't. He said he'll tell us when we get there."

"You've got weird friends, that's all I'm sayin'." They stood on the porch as he readied the umbrella. It was still raining and showed no sign of stopping in that decade. The lot outside the Carson's was pitted with puddles and she made sure to hop into every one in reach and get as much mud on them as possible. George answered the door, his cellphone clasped to his ear.

"C'mon in, c'mon in. Rig's downstairs, if you want anything from the fridge, help yourselves. Yeah, I'm still here Tom. No, just Trouble, and another one to make it Double." He smiled at them and winked. "Yes, I'll be on the road soon. You called…okay, they said they would…good. They owe us big time. Did you find…I see. Okay. Yep, then in ten, no, five. Bye. Gotta run kiddos, don't blow the place up eh? See you later."

"We'll try, Mister Carson." Naota said as George left, throwing mud across the lot as his truck disappeared into the rain. "Haruko, down this way." He opened the door to the basement stairs, leading her down into Rig's domain. As they turned with the stairs halfway down, he continued on not knowing she had frozen stiff.

. . .

Upon seeing the stereo in Rig's basement, Haruko was for the second time that day, no longer on Earth. She wasn't even in the same decade. She was transported many light years removed, and twenty-one Earth years back. Into a living room, specifically. Her perspective was from a low, toddling height; scarcely higher than the glass coffee table in front of her. The carpet between her toes was blue, the walls a soft yellow, and light streamed in from a sizable bay window; illuminating the very same stereo system as in the Carson's basement. There was no mistaking it. They were completely identical. All the same amplifiers, sound systems, media players, hook-ups and plug-ins, the racks for records, disks and cassettes. She wobbled towards it with grasping hands outstretched for balance. The many knobs, switches and buttons were delightful playthings as she checked them all. A voice called out to her, kind but firm, asking what she thought she was doing. She saw a male figure, but his features were clouded, blurred with time's slow corruption of memory. While he face was unclear, she could see his hair was white. Then, another voice, farther away and softer. Another figure, hazy as well but female with hair of crimson. She was so close to them. If only she could make it across the living room floor, maybe she'd remember then…just a little farther. Then arose from the bathroom, the sound of Rig throwing up, and the memory disintegrated back to the far recesses from which it had hidden.

. . .

"Hey in there, you alive?!" Naota pounded on the Rig's bathroom door. A haggard Rig answered. His left ear was red and puffed up a half size larger than its normal size, and a row of stitches ran along its top. The right side of his face, from eye to jawline, was one large purple and black bruise. A gauze pad had been taped over his cheekbone, and a small rust-red stain at its center was showing. "Oh shit! What the hell happened to you?"

"My face and a fist held a jousting match. My face lost." He explained, managing a small smile. "Aunt Rita's got me on painkillers, so it looks much worse than it hurts. I'm still shakes and nerves yet, that's why I was throwing up. No internal injuries or anything."

"Did, did _Clyde_ do that?" Rig shook his head slowly 'No' as they sat down. Haurko was being even more quiet than before they had arrived. In fact, she seemed almost dazed and not cognizant of herself. "Or was it…was it one of his guys?"

"Not much gets past you. Tommy and I decided to have a talk with Clyde, annnnnnnnnd…it didn't go as planned."

"Was there anything you learned? I'd hate for you to have gotten beaten up for nothing."

"We learned _plenty_." Rig told him of his venture into Clyde's trailer: his and Tommy's expose in the living room, the basement greenhouse, how Clyde had pulled off his plans, the use of Water Hemlock at McDonald's, the appearance of Clyde's assistants, and a tale of the melee that followed. "And that's when Tommy and I realized we had to fight our way out. It was really touch-and-go for a minute, but we managed to get away in one piece. I can't say where Clyde's disappeared off to. He could be halfway through Ohio by now, or in the county still, somewhere…"

"What about the plants, seeds and stuff? Did you get a chance to do anything about them, or are the cops handling that?"

"I'm positive the police are all over that trailer as we speak."

"Would that be, because of the explosion we heard earlier today? Could something have caught on fire during your fight?"

"It's entirely possible, I guess. But I really don't want to think about that right now." Rig made to close further discussion. "I need to get my mind off it for a while."

"Hey…wait a minute. Either something did, or did not, catch on fire. Especially with all that propane, gas, and fertilizer you mentioned, and the police being involved?" Something wasn't sitting Naota quite right. There was more to this story than Rig was letting on. "And I know you're no fan of the Blue Line. What makes you so sure the police are there? Did you call them, or did something else happen?"

"Look man, I'm really not up for this…"

"But why do I feel like you're hiding something from me? I, we, won't tell anyone; even George. Promise!"

"I know that, you're a good friend, but…"

"Come _on_ , Rig! Don't 'but' me. This is too important for 'buts'. This is Medical Mechanica we're talking about."

"Please let this go, at least for tonight."

"Ohhh…damn…what did you and Tommy _do?_ You, you didn't…?"

" _Naota._ " Was that, Haruko?

"What?"

"Let it go."

. . .

For Haruko, her day had been a trying one at best. First, her first fight with Naota. Second, the meeting with The Man in Black and spending the afternoon still reeling from the encounter. Third, her second fight with Naota. Fourth, the sight of the Carson stereo and the buried memory it had dredged up. Now it was Rig's face. Not the boxed ear, the split open cheek and black eye. But the expression he wore. It was one she recognized handily. She'd seen it numerous times, and worn it herself too often. A sorrowful, disgusted, and stricken look with eyes gazing off a thousand yards into oblivion. It was as plain to her as the cover story of the Sunday paper. That day, Jeff Carson, had seen Death.

. . .

"He's dealt with enough crap without you chewing his ear off like some bitchy, nagging housewife." Haruko elaborated to Naota's indignation, and Rig's surprised amusement. "Look at him, a real modern art masterpiece! He's your friend, right? You trust him, right?"

"Well, yeah, I do…"

"Then get off his back…aye-yi-yi dude!" She had even picked up one of Pennsylvania's many phrases of exasperation during her stay, and used it now.

"I must've been punched harder than I thought." Rig said. "Now I'm hallucinating that Haruko's taking my side…"

"Enjoy it while it lasts."

"Oh… _fine…_ " Naota gave up pressing the issue. It wasn't worth having a third fight to round out the day. He would work an answer out of Rig another time. "So…now that we're here…welcome to The Basement, Haruko. What do we want to play first?"

"Hmmm…w'all, you're my guests…" Rig offered.

"It's your stereo." Haruko countered, while giving the device an odd side-ways look.

"Y'all-righty. Let's set up first and I'll think." As they set up, Rig and Haruko temporarily exchanged guitars to examine the others instrument. He said her dual Flying-V and EB-0 was mightily impressive but a little 'too over the top' for him, while she complimented his restoration of his LP Standard, but said her preferences were a 'little more radical' than the traditional styles. "Well, I think I need something, loud. Where I can yell a little."

"Oh, that's right." Haruko said as they laid out their cables and pedals to hook up. "Naota said you play rhythm, and you're a decent singer. That imitation of the, uh, Ritter? Yeah, Ritter girl was pretty uncanny. He's really talked you up, so you'd better deliver. Wait, hold up." She looked at the three of them and their instruments. "With Naota's bass, your singing and rhythm, and me on lead…all we need is a drummer."

"Y'know Mizz Haruko…yah might be on to somethin' there." Rig agreed. "Let's see. Do you know…hummm…I'm trying to think of something to test you; seein's Naota's talked _you_ up a bit too."

"You said you weren't going to mention that in front of her!"

"Wait, you actually said something _nice_ about _me?_ Oh stop it, I'll blush. Look, you're all red yourself…"

"Pick a damn song Rig."

"Do y'all know any…Molly Hatchet?"

"You and your Southern Rock." Naota had to laugh. They'd once spent an entire evening trying to get 'Free Bird' down flawless on a single play through. It was still a back-burner, work in progress, ambition.

"You mean, like Lynyrd Skynyrd?" Haruko asked. "Southern Rock's not, unfamiliar to me, just not my usual, yah know?"

"Molly Hatchet came just after Skynyrd's plane crash; when everyone had thought Southern Rock to have died with them." Rig explained with zeal, color beginning to come back into his complexion. "Molly Hatchet said 'like Hell Southern Rock's dead! We'll take up that banner, hold our beers and listen to this!' And their album art is gnarly as fuck too."

"I'm sold." Haruko nodded. "What song? I don't think I know any of theirs."

"Worry not. For I, like any good Scout, am prepared." Rig pulled one of the plastic boxes out from under his lay-couch. He knelt and began thumbing through the reams of sheet music. "There yah go, one lead guitar for Haruko, and a bass part for Naota as a refresher. Do you need a minute to…?" Haruko took the sheets and began reading them, lips moving soundlessly as she scanned the notes, blazing through her part at a rate of mere seconds per page. After three read-throughs, she put down the music, quickly tuned the six-string half of her guitar, and announced she was ready.

"Just like that?" Rig, and Naota too, were surprised.

"Uh-huh. Whenever you are."

"You, sure you don't wanna do like, just the first few bars? A practice run?" Rig looked at Naota for clarification. All he could offer was an equally confused shrug. "You've got it? All of it?"

"Yeah. I can just, you know…I've been able to just, skim read it and go." Haruko said, unusually without fanfare.

"You'll understand if I, we…" Rig gestured at Naota. "Don't believe you?"

"Then stop talking, start playing, and watch me." She gave her first sly smile since that morning. "I'm waaaitinnngg…"

"Oooooookay. Here goes." With everyone plugged in, Rig adjusted the stereo, and pressed PLAY. It counted off a 'And a one, two, three…' And with a quick roll from the drums, off they went.

The tune Rig had chosen, Boogie No More*, started off slow; with Rig and Naota doing to introduction. Haruko joined in just after with high arching notes. It was a rougher, grittier feel than Naota's usual choices, but gave him a sense of…ruggedness, whenever they played some Molly Hatchet. While his and Rig's parts were lower growlings, Haruko paired off with higher up the scale. So far, she hadn't hit a single bum note. Then Rig cleared his throat and stepped up to his microphone.

* _Oh People, Baby…What's the matter with 'chu?_

 _Your feet, they h'ain't leavin' the ground!_

 _Don't you just wanna git on up, Baby, hearin' this rockin' sound?_

 _Don't you jest wanna jump on up, kick your chairs out of the way?!_

 _Hmmmnnngghhh…gonna rock yah Baby, rock you 'till the break of day!_

 _Listen here!_

 _We ain't never had no problems before…nobody seem to wanna Boogie No More…_

 _L'hh'whooaaaaa…it's easy, c'ain't you see?!_

 _Mmmmmnnn…gonna give it to yah one timmeeee…_

 _C'mon here!_

Rig's rhythm picked up pace, the lights reflecting off the polished black of his '56 Gibson LP Standard; despite its age _Back-Breaker_ rolled right along. While he sung with the voice of a country bar melded to a gravel road, Naota added his bass's depth, the once cast-off Rickenbacker 4001 filling the song with substance. Haruko was still ten for ten, keeping perfect time, eyes half-lidded in concentration while plying the Flying-V's strings. It had been an age since Naota had played with others that were on the same level of immersement as Haruko and Rig…and while the music flowed, everything else was washed away in its pure, raw sound.

 _RrrrooOOHHH! People, Baby, what's tha matter with 'chu?_

 _You're feet, they're leavin' the ground!_

 _Ah know that 'chu get on up, Baby, to hear this rockin' sound!_

 _Don'cha just wanna jump on up, an' kick your chairs out of the way?!_

 _Mmmm! Gonna rock you Baby, rock you to the break of day!_

 _Look out!_

Now Haruko stepped forward, front and center were hers. Her fingers slid seamlessly up and down the fretboards, sound building, pitch and volume climbing, pace quickening. The drums gave them several sharp stop-and-start crashes, then for a split second there was a pause. But it was not silent, as Rig got his yell in: a deep, Swamps of Florida, call that filled the basement and rattled the sliding glass doors; making Rig appear and sound a crazed man possessed.

 ** _YYYEEEEEEEAAAAAAGGGGHHHHHH!_**

And immediately after, Haruko took off and it was all they could do to keep up. She climbed up the scale, dropping straight back down only to climb right back up again. Still not one slipped finger, not one missed pick. Then there was a momentary slowdown, where they readied for the next, final push. Something was coming, because that would be the only reason Rig would look so devilish.

 ** _WELL…Ah'm gonna turn these boys loose on you one time Baby! Show me whatcha got Haruko!_**

Now she ran away from them, dominating the song with her lead. Haruko made the Flying-V come alive in her hands, hitting even the wobble of the punctuated highs perfectly. The basement throbbed with sound, the air hummed with it, and Naota wouldn't have been the least surprised if the stereo started smoking under the stress. Then, as their parts fell away in a slow fade-to-silence…it was over. And though their ears rang, none of them could stop smiling. His arguments with Haruko earlier were far forgotten in the back of his mind.

. . .

She had been able to lose herself for the first time in what felt to be ages. The painful memory was buried once more, and her encounter with The Man in Black smothered under the notes.

. . .

For now, the gore of Clyde's basement was gone. It would be back, but not tonight. The only words I had were: "Okay, okay…not bad Haruko, not bad at all. But hey, anyone can get lucky once. Prove it wasn't a fluke."

"You are _soooo_ on." Yah know what? When she ain't being an outright, rampaging, psychotic, sociopath…she ain't _too_ bad.

"So be it. Lemme see what I got here in my collection…there's something here that'll really stump yah…"

. . .

Clyde had originally embarked north on Black Moshannon Road, following the river of the same name. But at the T-intersection of Black Moshannon and Huckleberry Road, the right-hand turn, to the north, was blocked by a downed tree. Instead, he turned left and followed Huckleberry to Casanova Road. It was another winding, twisting mountain road through Black Moshannon Forest; barely wider than one lane and essentially a centuries-old wagon road that had been poured over with asphalt. It also contained the infamous Devil's Elbow switchback on the mountainside just about Groe Run. From his new course, Clyde would be travelling downhill at Devil's Elbow, a path where many reckless racers either had their brakes fail and send them headlong into the mountain wall, or fail to maintain the sharp curve and careen off the road and 200 feet down into the waters of Groe Run below. Now night was approaching and a quirk of living in the mountains meant that darkness came early. Barely able to see more than fifty feet, Clyde put his wipers on max and crept along as quickly as he dared.

. . .

Gathered in full, except those on essential patrol, the summary of Clearfield and Centre County's law enforcement stood at parade rest in the new State Police Barracks. It was just north of Port Matilda; at the edge of Black Moshannon Forest; on the far side of the forest from Philipsburg and Osceola Mills. While the 322-Bigler Highway cut through Black Moshannon and was faster, most of the officers were loath to venture into the dark forest. They drove around, taking the long way south. Three uniform colors separated them: the light blue-grey of Osceola Mills and Philipsburg local departments, the khaki and brown of the Sheriff and deputies, and the deep, solid blue of the State Patrol. Together they numbered 1,000 strong, with a roughly equal split among the three. At the front, The Man in Black stood before a wall-sized map of the area. At his sides were: Chief Warbug of Philipsburg P.D., Chief Strong of Osceola Mills P.D., Sheriff Sarabyn of his dual-county department, and Chief Chojnacki of the State Patrol. With a nod from The Man, Chief Chojnacki called for attention. There was a single snap as booted heels clicked together, and the room fell silent; save for the pounding of rain on the roof.

"Good evening Officers of Pennsylvania…and future leaders in The Red Star of The Solar Federation." The Man in Black began, needing no microphone as he spoke with a sonorous volume. You are here because you have been examined, and found having great potential. You have opened your ears, and awakened your minds to the Glory that is The Temple of Syrinx. Doubters, traitors, naysayers and heretics, have been removed from this body before me; only those of _true_ worthiness remain. For your loyalty I have already rewarded a sample of what The Red Star bequeaths to its allies." Many thoughts ran to money stashed in safe deposit boxes, hidden with family, or buried in secret places. Many more thoughts leapt forward in anticipation of what would come after, what they would do with their granted clemency.

"There is a saying I have learned during my time here, on Earth: Anything easy is not worthwhile, and anything worthwhile, is not easy. Thus far, I have kept my word, the word of The Red Star and Medical Mechanica. Now, it is your turn to reciprocate the favor, to honor your promises. What say you?! Will it be Aye? Or Nay?"

" ** _AYE!_** " The hall roared in unison. "We say _AYE!_ "

"Very well. Then we shall begin at once." As The Man in Black turned to the map, a young State Patrolman in the back turned on his mental recorder. While he was gathering and retaining every word said into his mind's strongbox, it was for a purpose The Man in Black would have found most reprehensible.

. . .

They had run the gamut with their musical selections. Decades and genres had been crisscrossed over and back again in a lyrical time machine. From Cream and Deep Purple, to The Black Keys and KONGOS (as Haruko insisted they play 'something from _this_ century') they'd dabbled in 'most everything, even if superficially. Now it was getting late, their fingers tired and Rig's voice weary.

"Got one more left in yah for a nightcap?" Rig asked after wetting his throat with a drink, then repacking his lip with tobacco and tossing the now empty tin into the trash.

"Depends, whose turn is it to pick again?" Haruko asked as she replaced a string. She'd broken one on their first, and so far only, try of 'Through the Fire and Flames'. "And before you say it, NO. We are not trying _that_ song again."

"Alright, geez, fine…" Rig sighed. "Break one string and its total drama. I think it's Naota's turn. How 'bout it? How do we close the night?"

"Maybe something off the rack?" Naota had been browsing the collection of vinyl records on the stereo's racks, marveling at some of the cover sleeve art. One he pulled out gave him a start. A red skinned demon's head stared back at him. It had two sharp horns, a pair of elvish shaped ears, an ape-like nose, and a gaping maw of long, pointed teeth that drooled blood. "Uriah Heep…Abominog. Never heard of them, or this album."

"Abominog, that's a good one, 1982 I believe." Rig said. "Uriah Heep's a kinda, well, _unique_ sound, I think is best to describe them. Big in the '70's, pretty much down to a cult band by the '80's; ran in the same circles as Zeppelin, Deep Purple, and Black Sabbath."

"Oooo, Sabbath?" Haruko's interest was piqued. "Can't be too bad then. Let's give one a go, Naota."

"'Kay, uhmmm…well, how about the first one then?" He picked the first song off the A-side.

"Too Scared to Run?** Yeah, we can do that one." Rig agreed. With adjustments and another speed-read from Haruko, they were set. "Haruko, take us away."

 _Too scared, I could not run!_

 _Could not make a sound!_

 _Lights were flashing, my whole life passing!_

 _My feet were stuck to the ground!_

 _Too light to call it night!_

 _Too dark to callll it day!_

 _Too scared to stay and fight!_

 _Too scared to run away!**_

. . .

'Easy…easy…take it easy…' Clyde approached Devil's Elbow with the same enthusiasm as a condemned man approaches the gallows. Water flowed along and over the road, he could feel his tires slipping their traction as he hydroplaned. Straining to see, he began to think _maybe, just maybe,_ he might make it to Interstate-80 after all. A figure loomed into his headlight's beams, they were standing on the center line at the tightest point of Devil's Elbow. How he had done it, how he had gotten all the way out to Devil's Elbow, in the dark of night and pouring rain, without a car, didn't matter to Clyde. The Man in Black had found him.

Clyde cranked his steering wheel hard over and pumped his brakes. The flooded road was too slick for traction and he slid to the hill's edge. A small measure of luck was with him as his car slammed its passenger door into a sturdy tree; rather than pitching itself, and him in it, over the edge and into the valley below. But now his front wheels spun in the mud, trapping him as The Man began slowly walking his way.

. . .

 _So scared I could not move!_

 _I could not make a sound!_

 _There were people running, people shouting! Flashes all around!_

 _Too scared to run!_

 _Too scared to ruuuunnnn away!_

 _Too scared to run!_

 _Too scared to ruuunnnn away!_

. . .

A flash of lightning illuminated the woods, showing The Man had put on and buttoned up his long coat for the weather; hiding all features except for the shine of lightning off the sunglasses he still wore. Losing its battle against the wind, a branch from an overhanging tree broke loose and blocked the road between Clyde and The Man. The crumpling thud of it landing shook Clyde out of his paralysis and he knew he'd only been gifted a few seconds. With no viable alternatives present, he abandoned his car and began slipping and sliding down the hill.

. . .

 _Too scared, I could not think!_

 _My eyes could scarcely see!_

 _My heart was racing, my knees were shaking! They would not carry me!_

 _Too scared to run!_

 _Too scared to run away!_

 _Too scared to run!_

 _Too scared to runnnn away!_

 _Too scared to run!_

 _Too scared to run away!_

 _Too scared to run!_

 _Too scared to runnnn away!**_

. . .

Groe Run had overflown its banks from a lazy ankle deep creek to a waist-high, angry torrent. He forded the water, getting knocked over twice before making it to the other side. Across, he picked up Casanova Road again and followed it. He did not want to try his spent luck in the trees, or risk drowning in another creek. Six Mile Run he crossed as water lapped at the bottom of the bridge, and then he got his feet wet again at the flooded crossing of Black Bear Run. Now he was out of Black Moshannon Forest, but not out of the woods. He had meant to take the Casanova Spur north again, into Winburne, then onto the town of Lanse, finally reaching Interstate-80. In the dark he missed it, and continued on Casanova Road down the valley into Munson; turning west rather than north, and farther from escape.

'How in the hell did he find me, all the way out here, in _this_?!' He huffed, trundling along as fast as his burning muscles allowed. 'And shit, why'd I run? That's even worse, I made it that much worse. I'm not guilty of anything, well, that he would know about. He couldn't know about the Carsons visiting me. Maybe McDonald's, sure. But he _couldn't_ know everything I told Tommy and Jeff! Those two are probably lookin' like ground hamburger by now…unless…' A terrifying thought presented itself. 'Unless _somehow_ they escaped, _and_ somehow He found out. Or, Cole showed up and got them to tell what they'd learned and that I had talked…and now I'm burned. God fucking dammit. And me running at first sight just showed I'm guilty. If I wasn't guilty of anything, I'd have no reason to run off, right? Oh shit, too late now. Just gotta get to I-80…where in the lovin' FUCK is the Spur?!'

Now he turned onto Chestnut Street and, not recognizing any houses, he was not in Winburne. Turning back meant to run into The Man along the road, in the woods, with nowhere to hide. He shuffled on, seeing a well-lit building on his right.

'Casanova Nostalgia?!' He read the restaurant's sign with despair. 'Aw shit, I'm in _Munson?!'_ Learning of his true location sapped the little strength he had left, so he decided to find somewhere hidden out of sight and mind. Casanova Nostalgia's doors were locked and a sign apologized for the ongoing renovations. He ducked around back and settled between the dumpsters and fence around them. Utterly spent, his muscles aching from unaccustomed use, shivering and soaked, Clye fell into an uneasy sleep; and prayed to whomever, or whatever, would listen, for dawn.

. . .

"Any luck Tommy?" George asked as he met his youngest son in the parking lot of Dunlap's Auto Sales; the rough middle point between Philipsburg and Osceola Mills. "I found nothing to the south, and the weather's too nasty to send out The Dogs. They'll freeze, or drown in the rain." Neither wanted to leave the shelter of their trucks, so they talked through cracked open windows.

"Nada." Tommy spat tobacco into a Mountain Dew bottle, wincing as the juice got into a cut on his swollen lip. His face resembled a raccoon with both eyes blackened in a bandit's mask. Invisible were the seven bruised ribs he had secured with electrician's tape from his truck's toolbox. "Went as far as Bigler, up to Kylertown, over to West Decatur. Nothin'."

"What about Black Moshannon?"

"In this?" Tommy pointed at the sky. "Like hell am I, or anyone half-sane, going out onto Hannah-Furnace, Casanova, or Huckleberry, or any of those stick-paths. If Clyde was dumb enough to try seasonal roads in a typhoon, then he's on his own. Shit, I'd even say he's earned it if he survives the night."

"I'd tend to agree." George sighed and shifted in his seat. He and Tommy had been searching, as well as Josh, Johnny, and Mike, and a few others they had cashed in favors owed. The worry was Clyde had some form of vengeance plan, a 'Samson Option' in case he was discovered. So far, no poison gas clouds had appeared, and the water didn't burn when flame was applied, but letting him go wasn't an option. George wasn't happy with how Tommy and Rig's meeting with Clyde had gone, but its complications had been beyond their control. Mostly, he was just relieved they were alive.

"At least no one else is going to the hospital for poisoning; and those hired hands won't be causing any more trouble. Six less people to watch." Tommy added, and George agreed again.

"…No point killing ourselves looking for him though." He resigned to the fact Clyde was gone, at least for now. Where, who knew? "I'll call everyone and send them home. It's just a shame about Clyde; how he turned out."

"I'm apathetic, honestly. Yeah, he had a shit of a start, and he can't be faulted for that. But he had agency. He made choices, of his own free will. His lifestyle, his actions, who he associated with. No one held a gun to his head and ordered him to follow The Man in Black. He took the easy way out, self-pity, all on his own."

"I weep not for what has become, but what could have been, and has not."

"I can dig that. So home?"

"Home. Let us know how you're doing tomorrow morning; and don't forget to take your pills."

"I already know how I'll feel: like hammered shit!"

"Check in all the same; and come see Rig too. He'll need some guidance for dealing with today. He's with Haruko and Naota right now, but he'll be with his thoughts when they leave." Tommy promised he would visit, and then the two Carson trucks parted. And the rain poured on, and on, and on…

. . .

"Patrolman Hynen!"

"Yes Sergeant!" The young State Patrol Officer that had been in the back of the hall, was called out by his Sergeant. The meeting with The Man in Black had concluded and everyone was dispersing. Due to the late hour, most were headed home.

"Been meaning to ask. Have you run into this crazy bastard on an orange and black Yamaha during any of your patrols?"

"Can't say I have." Officer Hynen shrugged. "Why? Have they caused any trouble?"

"Nothing serious, but he's an arrogant fucker; no respect for us cops. I chased him into Black Moshannon twice now. Once he gets off the paved road, he just…vanishes."

"I'll keep an eye out Sergeant; two if I can manage."

"Good to know. Lemme know when you find that little shit, and his bike too; the junkyard crusher is in its future. Have a good evening, Patrolman."

"Sir." Officer Hynen said his goodnight's and drove his cruiser out to his zone. He proceeded cautiously, aware of the precious cargo stored in his head.

. . .

Clyde jerked awake. It was still raining. His best guess felt like he'd only dozed a few minutes. Between the dumpsters was too cold and wet to sleep. He looked up from the dirt to get some better bearings, and saw first a pair of shoes. Not just any shoes. Black shoes. Expensive, black shoes. Clyde only knew one person who would be wearing shoes like those on a night like that. He had been cornered.

"Hello, Mister Kauffman." The Man in Black stood above him, cloaked in his heavy coat, water dripping from his fedora's wide brim. He was not smiling. "Have you had a good rest? You know why I'm here, don't you, Mister Kauffman?"  
"N-no, I, I don't…"

"Do _NOT._ LIE. To me, Mister Kauffman. I have neither the time, nor the patience for it. I'll ask again. _Why_ , am I out here, in the rain and chill, talking to you, next to a dumpster?"

"Because my trailer got broken into. It was these two guys I know, Carsons they're called! Tommy and Jeff! They're…"

"Wrong answer. I have been made aware of the Carsons, with no help or thanks to you." The Man shook his briefcase. "One of their trucks has been spotted and filmed at each deployment of an Assassination Unit. G&R Fabrication will be dealt with in their turn. No, I am here because you could not be troubled to follow a most simple instruction. This morning, you poisoned a restaurant with powdered root of Water Hemlock, for petty revenge against the manager; even planting a bag of the stuff in his car."

"How, how in the hell do you know that?!"

"It is the nature of my existence to know such things."

"Wait, I thought the whole point of my job was to create chaos? You know, scare the people, make them _want_ and _clamor for_ police protection and martial law!"

"No. Your mission was to obey orders, in creating _controlled, managed,_ and _directed_ chaos. The police have confiscated the security footage and are holding it for now, because they know it shows a brother of a State Patrolman; not a locally beloved manager. Are you aware, that at this very moment, in the rain, there is a mob gathering outside Philipsburg City Hall, _demanding_ Rick's immediate release, disclosure of the security footage, and even an investigation into the police for alleged cover-up?! Can you imagine what might be uncovered if such an investigation goes forward, or the people take it upon themselves to march on City Hall? The people must be frightened of a mysterious, external force, so they will run to their government for protection; not the other way around. Because of your Gluttinous frenzy for pain and suffering of others, you are gambling with exposure of everything your brothers, and all of us, are working for. All because you cannot stop self-pitying yourself."

"What do you know?! Who the hell are you to tell me what I can't or can feel?! I have a right to be upset, I deserve respect, don't I? Wasn't that what you told me Medical Mechanica, The Red Star, would bring?!"

"What a pathetic worm you are." The Man in Black spat with disgust. "Do you think The Red Star of The Solar Federation has achieved its glory merely because we sat around and proclaimed loudly how much we deserved it? NO! It was EARNED. With every drop of spilled Marine blood, every Corvette of our Navy lost to space, missions to frigid planets long dead, and ones still in the volcanic throes of beginning. All of it built with effort, with sacrifice, with our Pain! Pain and suffering, offered up to The Temple of Syrinx, as a testament of our exertions. But you, with your demands of respect, waste your days, holding tantrums instead of action, hoarding your pain to fill that emptiness in yourself. While we used our Pain to build a glorious Federation, you use yours as a flimsy crutch."

"I just wanted people to respect me, I wanted to feel powerful! No one to push me around or make fun of me; that they'd all be sorry! Was that too much to ask?!"

"Do you know why Gluttony is a sin, Mister Kauffman?"

"Wha…I…no?"

"Because it shows a lack of foresight, self-control, and discipline. It shows you must have every desire fulfilled in the instant, regardless of future implications. Such as, devouring your summer's harvest in the fall, leaving nothing for winter and ensuring you starve, because one day you felt more hunger than usual. This morning you made such a decision. Even though you merely needed to wait a while longer for the bounty of The Red Star of The Solar Federation, you gobbled every last seed of your stores; each seed a life you needlessly snuffed out. And now that your stores are empty, The Temple, The Red Star, Medical Mechanica, not even I, have any use for you. So you shall starve."

"No, nononoNoNONOOO! NO! Please, please no! Oh Christ, please no, don't do this to me!" Clyde tried to stand but his legs had cramped up tight. The best movement he could manage was a hobbled crawl. "I'll do anything, anything you ask! Don't make me live the rest of my life like this, a fat, kissless, unloved virgin no-life! I'll change, I can, whatever you ask…plleeeasseeeee…" His future dimmer and slipping out of reach, Clyde made on last desperate plea for mercy. The Man in Black stood silent as Clyde groveled.

"Have you finished?" The Man asked over Clyde's blubbering. "You want so desperately what I offer? Very well." He set his briefcase aside and grasped the side of the massive steel dumpster; filled with rainwater and soggy, thrown-out food. With an effortless heave, he tipped it over, spilling the sodden mass into a slop on the dirt lot. "Here! Eat your pain away, that pain you've tried to bury. The Red Star, Medical Mechanica, and I have no use for it, so bury it, smother it! Eat your Gluttony until the last bite and maybe you'll be seen redeemed before The Temple."

"Is…is…" Clyde knew what he was being ordered to do. "Please…forgive me…is there, is there…no other way?"

"It is this or slow starvation. Choose."

As Clyde tore open the first garbage bag, he was vividly reminded Casanova Nostalgia's menu was heavily Italian. Curdled cheeses, fuzzy bread, chunky milk and creams, ropes of half-eaten spaghetti, lasagna bursting with rotted beef and molds, spilled out while all the accompanying odors invaded Clyde's nose. He retched and gagged, the acidic fumes stinging his throat and eyes. He looked at The Man again, tears streaming from the odiferous clouds, and his own distress, mixing in the rain.

"Eat. Or starve." Clyde ate. He tried to find the most palatable bits, ones that would make him cough and heave the least. The Man gave no commands, no guidance. He just kept watch. Clyde feared every new bite would be the one to tip his stomach over the edge, and cause it to vomit up everything inside it. What he didn't know was it was no longer capable of such a function. Years of gorging himself at buffets and restaurants had stretched his stomach to twice the average size. While this meant he could hold more food in one sitting, it also meant the muscles around his stomach were stretched beyond their natural limits; and as of late, were beginning to tear under the tension. In short, Clyde wasn't throwing up, because his stomach muscles were too damaged to make him.

The first sign of trouble came when he felt a sharp pain in his abdomen. His stomach as pushing tightly against his bottom ribs. Since he was on his hands and knees, he wasn't feeling any pressure on his liver, intestines, or other organs. Yet. But the sharpness of the pain slashed like a knife across his stomach, and he when he groaned a mouthful of food fell onto the ground with a soggy splat.

"Please…my stomach…hurts…"

"Eat. Or starve." Five minutes had turned to ten, fifteen, twenty, and Clyde lost track. Now the pain was constant and spreading along widening seams. His already ponderous gut was approaching a caricature like bulge beneath him. Cramps in his shoulders, shivers from the damp and cold, labored breathing, all restricted his movements, while his internal spring was running out of tension to keep him moving. Another handful of food to a swollen mouth, an aching jaw and chattering teeth; half would make it down while the other half dribbled down his chin and neck. Finally, after exceeding its limit and valiantly holding as long as possible, Clyde's stomach capitulated. Splitting along a muscle seam, its entire contents surged into the rest of Clyde's body.

A scream, shout, or cry, does not lend justice to the inhuman sounds Clyde made as his stomach acid began attacking everything it touched. While the walls of his stomach were designed with those fluids in mind, the rest of his body was completely defenseless. Clyde was being slowly dissolved from the inside out. The Man in Black betrayed no emotion good or ill, as Clyde expired.

"It seems your pain is finally being buried. A shame it had to be under such circumstances." The Man in Black consulted his pocketwatch, stowed it, and hefted his case. Tipping his hat forward in parting respects, as Clyde rasped and writhed, The Man in Black readied to leave. "Fare thee well, Mister Clyde Ryan Kauffman."

The Man in Black turned smartly on his heel and faded into the night. The last sign of him were his shoes making tracks in the mud, but their sound was quickly drowned out by the surrounding din. Clyde had been left alone to experience the same agony he had wrought upon so many others. He had tried calling for help, but was too weak to manage above a squeaking cry. Stomach acids attacked his intestines first, then began working on his kidneys. Once those began feeling the burn of acid, Clyde lost even his ability to writhe and thrash while his body ate itself. After an agonizing eternity and losing his intestines, liver, kidneys, and appendix to his stomach's last act of revenge, he finally passed from the Earth. And the rain continued to pour, and pour…and pour…

. . .

* * *

Songs:

*Boogie No More - Molly Hatchet

**Too Scared to Run - Uriah Heep

Now, we had the fights between the Assassination Units and our colorful cast. But this fight felt a lot more visceral, infinitely more personal. It's one thing to bring down a giant robot. It's quite another thing to watch, to _feel,_ someone die right in front of you. As I mentioned in this blurb section last chapter, I did not go with the 'five pounds of shit in a two pound sack' for the incident at Clyde's. Tommy and Rig were (hopefully) shown less of bloodthirsty hit-men, and more of two guys caught between a rock and a hard place.

I had tried to think of a 'fail-safe' or as I mentioned previously, 'Samson Option' for Clyde if he'd been caught. If you don't believe in man-made Armageddon, give that a look-up. But I will admit, I could not think of one I could make work. Sorry about that. :/ Lye was the best I could come up with that he would have immediately on hand, accessible right then and there. If anyone has seen 'Fight Club', you know its power.

More of Cole was introduced, and like I said...he's a real hoot at parties huh? He's one of those guys you can see coming a mile away that makes you say 'Oh shit...here come's Captain Buzzkillington...' Then again, if I had to be the patriarch of the Kauffman family and put up with the likes of just who we've met, Craig and Clyde, I'd trend towards being a grumpy, insufferable, authoritarian asshole myself.

Haruko, Naota, and Rig, all together, acting like normal teenagers (and whatever the hell Haurko is) and just having a good time. And Molly Hatchet! What's not to love?! Well, the glimpse inside the memories stored in Haruko's brain-case is good too. Make of it, what, you will...something about Rabbit Holes...

Also, know that I am including streets, roads and towns to keep my own mind straight when talking about these places, and so you can better follow along. Go ahead and bring up Google Maps, follow along; everywhere mentioned is really real! It'll be as close to having pictures in a fanfiction story as you can get. Immerse yourself.

We also met Officer Hynen; and you thought we were done with introductions...he'll be _another_ person of interest. I do hope you're keeping your spreadsheets updated.

Finally, Clyde has left us. This time he was VASTLY improved I think, but do not believe I am sorry to see him go. The traditional punishment for Gluttony is, from the stories I've read, being forced to eat rats, serpents, and other foul beasts. That I could also not figure out how to work, but eating garbage has to be close enough for that grenade.

Well...let me see...that, yeah. That about does it, for now anyway. Now I know. "Don't let you think you can get away with slacking off for another four months since you gave us two chapters BigCountry-75!" My grey is gone, I'm in a much better mood, and there will be more in short, proper order. Until then, as always, you know the drill. Please let me know how I'm doing, especially with the changes from last time, and leave a review! Thanks again for reading, until...June?...May? :P


	15. Chapter 15

Hey FanFiction, how's your summer been going? Mine's been going well, had some adventures 'n' such, went to Cedar Point for the first time ever, so that was fun. I started running to try and get some wind back in my lungs, so that's not fun. But I gotta do it. Anyway. The format is the same as last time: two chapters that were originally written as one. I have no problem reading a 20,000+ word chapter, but I know the rest of you have lives, obligations, duties, and responsibilities. In this installment, we hear some Weasel Words from the Wascally Politicians, meet with Patrolman Hynen, have some Rush music, I think that makes a pretty good time.

* * *

. . .

"…Sentenced to ninety days probation, and as many days community service." Judge Ryan ordered with a sharp crack of his gavel. It was a slow morning at Clearfield County Courthouse, and for Judge Ryan, mind-numbingly boring. "Bailiff, see the Defendant out. Next case." Mondays, and a sluggish, muggy one too. The rain from the weekend had refused to evaporate in a timely fashion. Most of Judge Ryan's days in court were such bores. Stuck in what he viewed a backwater coal-country Hickville, with mostly civil cases, the occasional drunk driver, and dumb kids pulled over on their way to smoke dope at the end of the Midstate Airport's runway. It logically followed Judge Ryan would find some way to liven up his days.

"Your Honor, next case is…" A clerk consulted the list. "Ledbetter versus Clower. Domestic dispute over betting on the outcome of a NASCAR race, and failure to pay up. Plaintiff claims Defendant assaulted them with a taxidermized catfish. They are filing suit for damages, suffering, mental and emotional trauma, and medical expenses."

"I see…" Judge Ryan looked down at the casework before him. 'Maybe I'll take Him up on his offer after…no. I won't give Him the satisfaction.' He wrestled with his thoughts before shunting them aside. "Let's begin."

The humidity and aging air system made the courthouse a stuffy furnace. But Judge Ryan didn't perspire a single drop. It was a curiosity that threw many trial lawyers off their game. In fact, as the testimony wore on and parties deliberated, Ryan appeared rather cool and comfortable, relaxed; at ease even. This was due to a dirty little secret he alone knew. Not anyone on staff, no friend, colleague, nor his wife. It was an indulgence in his long closeted hobby of voyeurism. The Most Honorable Judge Ryan didn't feel the heat, because he had taken to going stark naked under his official robes.

. . .

"Mornin' Naota, Mizz Haruko, and Canti, of course." Rig gave his morning greeting between gulps of coffee. "Hey, hey! Down! Down with you Sirs!" Bolt, Gus, Sam, and Piddles: The Wonder Dog, made their own enthusiastic salutations. "How was the rest of y'all's weekend?"

"Alright. We had a Skype call with Tasuku." Naota said. They followed Rig into the shop and to the drafting table designated to hold all the project drawings. He already had a job lined up for them. "Talked for a good four hours."

"How'd that go?" Rig sifted aside rolls of paper and uncovered a heavy manila folder. "The 'Toona Curve plays…Wisconsin this coming weekend, right? Away game?"

"They do. It's supposed to be a really good game. We're going to watch it live; provided it doesn't rain again."

"Very nice. Anything new, with you, Mizz Haruko?"

"Eh. Not really, no. Just hung out."

"Hmm. Well, that's disappointing." Rig shrugged and started thumbing through the folder's contents. "'Fore we get sidetracked, I must let you know the cops found Clyde."

"They did?" Naota tried to imagine where Clyde could have ended up, and how he had gotten caught. "Where, and how'd they catch him?"

"I didn't say catch. They _found_ him." Rig's tone this morning was baseline deadpan. To Naota, it looked like a robot was piloting Rig and merely checking off a list of motions.

"Found him? You mean…?"

"Dead as a hammer. Saturday morning, way out in Munson."

"Munson?" Even Haruko had to break in. "What in the hell was he doing out there?"

"Eating himself to death."

"No, really." That would have been a joke dark even for Rig.

"Really." Rig looked up, and didn't blink. His face and ear were still swollen and garishly colored, but the un-Rig-like clipped and short speech was the worrying issue. Something heavy was on his mind, and if Naota had been forced to guess it was whatever had happened at Clyde's trailer. Both Rig and Haruko were off-kilter that day. Aside from their playing on Friday night, they had been subdued and moody since. Naota couldn't tell why, but knew all was not well in the world.

"Explain that one."

"They found Clyde behind Casanova Nostalgia…"

"The Italian place?"

"The same. Behind Casanova Nostalgia, next to a tipped over dumpster. He'd eaten so much of the junk and throw-away his stomach had split open. All the stomach acid inside ate up his guts. Liver, intestines, kidneys, appendix. Died in agony."

"Good Christ…" Naota felt his own stomach churn at the thought of his own body eating itself from the inside out. "While we're on Clyde. You promised you'd tell me what happened, and ducked me all weekend. So let's have it."

"Fair 'nough." Rig spat tobacco and coffee swill into a trashcan with a solid _Puh-Klank!_ "You know all what we found and how Clyde was runnin' things, and there was a fight."

"Yep, got that. Go on."

"Clyde had enough propane, fertilizer, and gasoline in his trailer and basement to make an ANFO bomb that'd do Timothy McVeigh proud. Not to mention the two hundred and fifty gallon liquid natural gas tank just outside. When the bunch of us got to fightin', there was a lot of stuff getting' thrown around, a lot of bodies movin', and a lot of stuff got knocked down and smashed up. The generator got flipped on its side, there was some gasoline leaking from it, some of the propane too. I also knocked over some fertilizer, bag of ammonium nitrate stuff, and it got spread everywhere too." Rig stopped to have a drink and went on in the same flat monotone. "Without getting into too much gore, Tommy and I gave better than we got; but made a lot of noise and mess doin' so. So there we are, looking like Hell, in a basement belonging to a brother of a state trooper, with blood, teeth, and God-knows else all over the floor, and the place is not only filled with illegal plants, but filling with gas and fumes. Clyde had split the second the fightin' started, so the real reason we was there at all was gone. So…" Rig took a steadying, heavy breath. "So, we hauled ass on outta there. I don't know how the place went up. It could have been any number of things. A static spark, an alarm clock going off, a heating element, a bursting UV light…"

So Rig and Tommy weren't psychotic murderers, Naota determined. They hadn't marched everyone into the basement, executed them, and then blown the place to splinters to cover it up. The reporters and news, under strict orders from police to keep the issue controlled and downplayed, had omitted one of the bodies had a massive hole in the back of its skull from a close-up pistol shot. Without that information, Naota could not find any reason to ask the question his friend had been praying to avoid: Did you kill anyone?

"Okay…okay…that balances out."

"Still, I dunno…" Haruko wasn't as easily satisfied. "Six guys, against two? I wouldn't put money on those odds."

"Tommy and I were extraordinarily lucky." Rig answered in resolution, and a twinge of slighted pride. "By rights, we should be dead. But, I understand you are not of this planet. So, Mizz Haruko…never discount the ferocity of a Human when cornered, and given no other way out."

"Hmmm. Jury's still out for me." She dropped her own question seeing Rig wasn't about to be cowed. "Anyway. What's next, that for us?"

"This week's gonna be busy. Lots of shop work. I know, I know…" Rig held up a hand with bandaged knuckles. "We should follow up on Clyde, yes. But not right after his trailer blew up and Cole is no doubt on the warpath; looking for an ass to skin alive. Before we go out, we need to let this die down a bit. Give it a week or two; fair?"

"…Well…" Naota felt like they were finally starting to really gain traction. It pained him to think of sitting around when they could be looking into mentioned connections to city hall and the county commission, or ties to police. But going after such targets when they were on high alert and searching for suspects, sounded tantamount to suicide. "One week, no more, no less. Take it or leave it."

"Done. Now, Sir Nandaba and Lady Haruhara, your latest quest." Rig handed them a parts list. It was dozens of items long. Some were simple pins or small plates, while some required extensive machining and lathe time. "A drinking fountain company in Scranton is working on some new designs. They don't want to take anyone off the line to fiddle with a small prototype batch, so we're going to build it for them. They want a preliminary set to see if we can match their standards, then they'll place a larger order for prototype work and testing."

"A drinking fountain company?" Both flipped through the scaled-down drawing printouts. "That would explain these pipes."

"But not why there are spiral grooves cut into them…" Haruko added without looking up from her copy of the drawings. "And on the inside too."

"I'm not sure what the deal with those are. The guy on the phone said some of the info was proprietary, but I think it's to put a spiral pattern in the water; so it comes out in a smaller, tighter stream instead of the usual burble." Rig offered his suggestion with a shrug and a yawn.

"Uh-huh…New question." Haruko peered over her drawings at Rig; giving him a mean stink eye.

"Uh…new answer?"

"Are these… _novelty, decorative_ , drinking fountain parts?" She asked with arching eyebrows. It seemed she already had her own answer, but wanted to hear what Rig said.

" _No,_ they're a potential long running and well-paying project for us." Rig corrected. "If we do this right, it'll be about ten thousand bucks a week; in profit. So, I need you two on top of your game. Johnny, Josh, and Mike, and I too, if I dare say so, and I do, have taught you well. Can I ask for a one thousandth of an inch tolerance on all of these dimensions?"

"You can, especially if it's worth ten grand a week." Naota promised, feeling a swell of pride. A ten thousand dollar a week project was no small assignment, and it really spoke to Rig's trust in him, and Haruko too, that he thought them up to task. "How many of each do you want of the list?"

"Start for three runs of the list today. That'll give you time to set up a process and make adjustments. I'll have my micrometer charged and calibrated for quality control. If you're kosher, we'll up production as prudent. Agreed?"

"Agreed. Are we sourcing material or…?" His question was answered as a truck pulled into the lot outside. Its flatbed was laden with steel plates, tubes, and rounds. "Perfect timing! Can we start now?"

"You can start ten minutes ago." Rig seemed anxious to be headed out. "I have to run some errands, but if you need any, _any_ help on this, please ask one of the guys."

"Relax man, don't worry 'bout it." Haruko soothed. She was already drawing a part's rough cutout on a flat plate with her soapstone. "This'll be easy-peasy next to those *ahem* _novelty decorative paperweights._ "

"But it is a lot more important. So please…"

"Hey Rig, it's alright." Naota smiled at Rig, who was failing to conceal his uneasiness. "We've done jobs more complex than this; we'll be fine. Go run your errands." Rig seemed to brighten up a little, said his goodbye and departed in his Bronco. As Naota and Haruko set up the shears for their first set of cuts, Josh was briefing Canti for a special project of his own.

. . .

"What is it? How can I help?" The words scrolled across Canti's monitor. "Do you have a project for me?"

"Oh do I! If you'll have it." Josh ushered him over to his bank of computers. "It's something I'd love to do myself, but I don't think my own processor…" Josh tapped his temple. "Is up to the challenge. Before I get ahead of myself, I'm…not really sure how you tick. But, to me anyway, I think there's someone home in here." Josh pointed to Canti's head. "So, just know we won't make or ask you to do anything you, or your code, or Ghost, or whatever, doesn't want to do. Cool?"

Of all things he had experienced thus far, factoring for Mabase, this was the strangest. So strange it was even The Something within Canti roused from snooze and sat bolt upright. Medical Mechanica did not abuse or neglect any of their equipment or robots. They designed, built, deployed, maintained and repaired them with great pride. With all the work and effort put into each unit, Medical Mechanica was well incentivized to keep their bots in top order. But such a life for a machine belonging to Medical Mechanica had conditions. Chief was complete and total obedience. Orders given were not questioned, requests never refused. The ability to say 'No' to someone above your own station, much like the rest of society under The Red Star, did not exist. An offer to refuse, at any time of his choosing, seemed too generous to Canti.

'What do you think?' He asked The Something.

'What do I think? He asked you. Not me.'

'Is there a difference? Or have we still not determined that yet?'

'When I know the answer to that, you will too. Are you going to help; yes or no?' Since this decision was his own to make, it was rather easy.

"That is too kind of you. Yes, I will help."

"Awesome!" Josh's smile filled the shop. He indicated for Canti to plug into the main computer via his hardline. "So here's what's up. I got the street camera program from Craig's phone fully dissected, and I'm going to start reworking it for our own purposes. But there's another, newer project that's come up. Now again, if you don't want in, feel free to say no." The Something and Canti wondered what this project could be since it had Josh so animated. Both wanted in, whatever it was.

"I will have to know what it is first." Josh's smile morphed into a fox's smirk.

"Do you know what a Botnet is?"

. . .

"Hey Larry, you catch the Cubs game?" One Guard asked his partner on duty. Their task was to secure the loading dock, overseeing transfers in and out, of Virginia's War Museum. Within was displayed a collection of martial antiques and treasures. Some exhibits still ran, drove, and fired, or so the rumors went. "I think they've got a good chance this year, a reeeaalll good chance."

"To what? Break the curse?" As they chatted, a delivery truck backed up to the dock. A driver in a denim jumpsuit, company ball-cap, and sunglasses, approached with his clipboard of official looking paperwork. "Gary, you're my friend and all; really. But you're all wrong on this. Think of their lack of momentum. It's been over a hundred or so years. You're gonna see Hell freeze over first before…hey, hey, hey. Who are you, and what're you doin' here?"

"Mornin'!" The Deliveryman's smile was infectious. Luckily for Larry and Gary, they were immunized. "Ah'm here for tha transfer of…uh…wait…s'here somewhere's…" He flipped pages on his clipboard, smile drooping into a puzzled frown. "H-hang with me fellahs, Ah got it…maybe, no…tha' ain't it…"

"Look uh, Waylon…" Gary read the name patch on the man's jumpsuit. "Before you get upset, we weren't even expecting any traffic today. No deliveries or pickups. Can you at least tell me who sent you?"

"Yes! Yessir, Ah can give yah that!" Waylon's smile was back. "Tha Smithsonian Institute of Tha United States, in Washin'ton Dee-Cee!"

"Oh…kay." Larry and Gary both exchanged a glance that read 'Is this guy for real?' It was Monday, too early, and they considered themselves paid too little to care. "Do you have the paperwork or not?"

"Tha's tha thang, should be right here." Waylon flipped pages again. "Ohhhh…Ah'll betcha Ah know wha' happened."

"This'll be good." Gary sighed. "Let's hear it."

"We've got this new manager-type doin' shippin' an' such. She's ah real sweetheart…but still on tha wrong side of tha learnin' curve, if yah know what Ah mean. Ah'll bet she gave me tha wrong sheets this mornin'."

"Well…even if that's true, we can't release anything without proper authority." Larry shrugged. "Sorry Waylon. Rules are rules."

"Ah got her number here…" Waylon patted his pockets and produced a slip of paper. "Tha's tha direct line to her office." Gary used the phone box between the dock's doors to make the call.

"Smithsonian Institute, Department of Resource Acquisitions." A soft female voice, with hints of Eastern Europe, answered. "My name is Gretel, how can I help you?"

"Hi Miss Gretel. I'm Larry Ward, of the Virginia War Museum. There's a deliveryman named Waylon here; claims he works for you. Ring a bell?"

"Ah, Mister Williams, yes." Gretel answered in a resigned tone. "What's he done _this_ time?"

"He says that he's supposed to make a pickup of something of ours."

"And he doesn't have his paperwork, does he?"

"No ma'am. He does not."

"He told you I'm new here and gave him the wrong sheets, didn't he?"

"Yes ma'am. He certainly did." Larry eyed a stupidly smiling Waylon.

"It's not the first time he's done this. I'll have a discussion with him the moment he gets back. I am so, so, terribly sorry for any problems he's…"

"No, that's alright. I just need a copy of the work orders faxed over. Do you have our number?"

"Yes I do. I'll send a copy now. Thank you so very much for your assistance Mister Ward."

"Oh, well, you know…s'nothing really."

"All the same. Good day, Mister Ward."

"You're in hot water pal." Larry informed Waylon as he hung up. "Your boss doesn't sound too pleased with you."

"Ahhhh….shit." Waylon groaned. "She's gonna have me doin' inventory counts fer ah month."

"It'll serve you right." Gary chided as the phone rang. He answered this time. "Gary, shipping dock."

"Gary, hi. It's Paulette from the front office. I just got a fax from the Smithsonian. They're borrowing a few of our artifacts for a Labor Day exhibit on The Mall. A Miss Gretel said she had spoken with Larry?"

"That's right." Gray confirmed. "Just make sure a copy of the fax gets in our file too." Gary hung up and said: "Well, Waylon. Sounds like you got lucky this time."

"Really?! Aw, thank y'all so much! Ah'm real sorry 'bout tha hassle. Ah'll git on outta yer hair fast as possible." With a printed copy of the work order, Larry, Gary, and Waylon, loaded a crate into Waylon's truck. The robust wooden crate was five feet long, two feet wide, and two feet tall, and weighed two hundred pounds. Stamped on the lid was: BMG, Cal 0.50, M2HB USN. Gary and Larry, neither being a firearm or history enthusiast, had no idea what the letters meant; nor did they care. With the crate stowed and many profuse thank-you's, Waylon finally departed.

It would not be until Wednesday afternoon that someone conducting inventory would realize the error. A frantic call to the Smithsonian discovered that neither a Gretel nor a Waylon was currently employed there; or had ever been. The tracing of Gretel's number sent them to an unlisted cell phone. Its last known location was a fifty mile wide circle between Tennessee and North Carolina. Searching for the fax number's origin lead back to a vacant warehouse in Norfolk. The work order itself proved to be an elaborate and involved fake. Security camera footage of the truck's license plate showed a number registered, and reported stolen, from Tallahassee, Florida. Finally, the camera images of Waylon's face drew blanks in all law enforcement databases. The BATFE was looking into it…but with six other similar cases up and down the Eastern Seaboard, they were not optimistic.

. . .

"Hey Jim! C'mere, yah gotta meet this guy." Jim was waved over to the table Shigekuni Nandaba was occupying with his regular morning coffee group: Ken, an F-4 Phantom II pilot, Franklin, a deaf artilleryman, and Ralph, a nuclear missile 'boomer' submariner. "May I have the pleasure of introducing: Sergeant Shigekuni Nandaba of The Imperial Japanese Army."

"Sergeant; a pleasure." Jim saluted as Shigekuni stood to return with his own salute; still crisp despite the decades. Both then shook hands.

"Pleasure's mine, Corporal." Shigekuni smiled, seeing the chevron pin on Jim's hat. "The Bloody Bucket I see?"

"That's right." Jim tapped another pin, keystone shaped that shone red and gold. "Twenty-Eighth Infantry Division; oldest in the U.S. We were the guys who marched first into Paris. I'm sorry to bother, I've been on vacation and just got back. What about you, where did you serve?"

"Seventeenth Division of the IJA. Our code was the Moon Division. I was assigned first to Shanghai, then sent to the Solomon Islands, New Britain, Bougainville, Cape Gloucester, and was stationed in Rabaul when the war ended."

"That's amazing! I'd really like to swap stories…if that's okay? I'll understand if, you, you know…"

"If I'm still bitter?" Shigekuni waved around the table. "Would I be here, with these knuckle-heads, if I was? Don't worry. It has been seventy one years. I've long forgiven what was and moved on."

"Whew! I'm glad to hear that. So, how'd you…"

"Hey, check this out!" Another veteran shouted from across the Osceola Mills' V.F.W. hall. "They're talking about that explosion in Philipsburg." A crowd gathered around the television and watched the camera focus on an interview with several police officers and firefighters. In the background, a forensics team was cleaning up and taking down the yellow scene tape. Intrigued, Shigekuni and his table took their coffees and ambled over to join in. The reporter was asking a State Patrolman for his opinion.

"…response to this tragic accident, Patrolman Kauffman?"

"It is, indeed a, ah, tragic incident to have lost Clyde like this." Cole Kauffman's words were slow and deliberate. "It is a dark day for the Kauffman Family, but we are a resilient family, and I know together we will find the strength to pull through."

"Our thoughts and prayers are with you, and your family. I must say, I find it admirable you are still on active duty and at work; even with all that has happened."

"This is how I cope, by staying busy. And it's the only way I can be sure to find and catch who did this." Cole concluded by ignoring the reporter's eyes, and instead looked dead-on into the camera. "If you're watching, whoever did this, know that I always get what I set my mind to; and you're top of my list."

"You, I'm sorry Officer, but you think this was no accident?"

"No. I do not think so."

"Do you think it was something else; murder?"

"I do not think it was murder. I know it was."

"Jumpin' Jimmeny Crickets, he give me the creeps." One veteran remarked. "He's got them crazy eyes. Ole' Smokey here's on a power trip."

"That's for dern sure." One agreed, then expanded. "But I'd use a different s-word than 'Smokey'. I'd say the oldest Kauffman looks a little more Schutzstaffel…" A small clamor of protest rose at the comparison. "Bah, all of you! Just look at the guy!" Shigekuni did look and had to agree.

Cole was at least six feet and five inches tall, towering over the diminutive reporter. His posture and physical build were regally composed, with a proud chest and shoulders. A straight-razor shaved rectangular face, sharp and narrow blue eyes, and strong Nordic nose, were all topped by dark blonde hair cut and immaculately combed in a parted-side and tapered sides hairstyle. The polished leather of his knee high boots, Sam Browne belt, magazine pouch, and holster for his H&K-45 pistol, all gleamed in the morning sun; all over a deep, dark blue uniform, stark white undershirt, and black tie. In his hands, Cole fussed with a similarly blue and silver peaked cap. What disturbed Shigekuni most was the combination of Cole's smile, perfectly aligned and blinding teeth, and his eyes. The smile was a clever rouse. Beautiful as a bullfighter's cape to watch, while behind it hid the swords of Cole's omnipotent gaze. Just looking at Cole as a whole, let alone just his eyes and smile, made Shigekuni's skin crawl.

"We will keep you updated as this story develops." The reported was wrapping up. The crowd of veterans remained to discuss.

"Don't like it, don't like it one bit." A man in a Screamin' Eagles, 101st A.B. shirt declared. "My grandkid's a grade 'hind one've those Kauffmans; Cody I think. He says the whole family is a buncha whackos."

"Wasn't Cole one of Solomon's supervisors?"

"Was, 'till he got shit-canned for being a Got-dammed psychopath. And now look who he's hanging with. With the biggest bunch of psychos around: the State Cops."

"Are American police really that bad?" Shigekuni asked Ken. "I was under the impression they were mostly lay-around doughnut eaters."

"Far from it." Someone had overheard them. The chimer-in wore a shirt stating: And on the 8th Day, God created the Tanker; and the Devil himself stood at attention. "You wanna talk roid-rage? You wanna talk God-complexes? You wanna talk megalomania? Then you wanna talk about the American Cop."

"And crooked too! I'll bet Cole's integrity and record's as straight as a dog's hind leg!"

"What makes you say that?" Shigekuni turned to the newest speaker.

"Judge a man by the company he keeps; or the company his family does, to an extent. Friend of mine lives down Water Street from the trailer park. He's seen a whole host of shady characters hanging around. Six were the scrougiest lookin' meth-heads you ever did see, another this dumb doofus, and then this F.B.I. lookin' spook. All seemed to know that Kauffman, Clyde? The one'd got his place blown up."

"Now there's F.B.I. too?" Jim shook his head. "Just what we need botherin' us now…the damn Feds."

"Didn't say he was F.B.I. Said he looked like F.B.I. Could've been anyone, or no one."

"Looked F.B.I. huh?" For an odd reason, the mention of a shadowy spook gave Shigekuni a second set of chills. He couldn't remember why, but knew it was important. "Maybe he's here to investigate all the other things going on? Like the train derailing."

"Could be…could be…but really, who knows?"

"There's supposed to be a speech today at Town Hall. The Mayor, City Council, Chiefs of Police and all." This offered information was downplayed with hisses and dismissive hand waving. "Bugger off, the lot of you…"

"That's what they're supposed to be doing, since they're in charge." Shigekuni defended, then looked around. All were sad smiles, and some shook their heads. "You voted for them, put them into office, right?"

"If voting changed anything at all, they wouldn't let us do it."

"The Mayor and his City Council couldn't pour piss out of a boot with instructions written on the heel."

"Sounds just like some of the Butter Bars I knew when they were fresh from OCS." A 1st Air Cavalryman shook with reminiscent laughter. "You look surprised Shigekuni."

"I'm still getting used to living here, it seems. I thought higher positions were peopled by those who know what they're doing."

"I am sorry to be the bearer of bad news…" Ralph clapped him on the shoulder. "But get used to that feeling of disappointment in American politicians. It's the rule, hardly an exception. Hey, we've still got time before the speech. Let's get another cup and you and Jim acquainted. He's got a great story about…well, I'll resist spoiling. He calls it: The Great Noodle Incident."

"Oh, not The Great Noodle Incident, again?!" Jim heard them and began half-hearted protest. "Oh, alright. For the new guy. So, I'm at this bar in Allentown right? And…"

. . .

"We really should've given a statement Friday night." Mayor Aldrich said to his Deputy, Mr. Vanderlip. They were alone in the lobby of Philipsburg's Town Hall. In the next room, the meeting hall, were a gaggle of reporters for the small papers, and many locals as well. This group eagerly awaited the Mayor's statement about the recent events plaguing the county; and what he planned to do about them.

"That would have given everyone the weekend to forget about it, yes." Deputy Mayor Vanderlip agreed. "But, well, you-know-who insisted we wait."

"I'm sure he has his reasons." Aldrich and Vanderlip reviewed the flashcards The Man in Black had written for them. "But I must say, it's very nice to not have to make the decisions ourselves. The Man really does make things easier."

"Mm-hmm. The lifting of responsibility feels just…so, liberating." Vanderlip concurred and flipped a card. "It's already as He said, how The Red Star takes care of you."

"Heh-hem! Are you two ready?" Chief of the State Patrol, Captain Chojnacki, hissed from the doors to the hall. His own flashcards peeked out from his uniform's breast pocket. "They're getting impatient!"

"We're ready."

. . .

"Whaddyah think?" Josh had taken a break from his project to check in on Canti.

"Their coverage of both towns, and in and around them to the surrounding area, is impressive." Canti reported. He had been reviewing and cataloging the police camera feeds of every unit in and around Philipsburg and Osceola Mills; live and in real time. Josh's reworking of Craig Kauffman's phone application had proven itself in accessing any camera Canti wished. "But not complete. I am creating a map of all areas left unobserved."

"That's good thinking. Man Canti, you're almost done?" Josh leaned over to watch the screens. "This would have taken me a day or two, you've done it in a few hours."

"It is nothing. Really."

"Let yourself have a little swagger, at least. Oh, how's that other thing coming?"

"Slower. I am not as well versed in the Ice Pick program, but another problem has arisen."

"Uh-oh. What's up?"

"The targets we are looking at, and Ice Pick has tried to infiltrate, are encrypted."

"Encrypted? Well that figures…that's not all, is it?"

"No. The encryption type is one I would recognize anywhere. It is Medical Mechanica's handiwork."

"How sure of that are you?"

"Ninety-nine point two percent."

"That's…pretty damn sure. How long will it take?" Canti noticed Josh did not ask 'if' Canti could break the encryption. He knew Canti could.

"It may be as little as a week. Or as long as several months. I understand time is a limited commodity. I will not disappoint."

. . .

In Osceola Mills a similar meeting to Philipsburg's was taking place. Mayor Andrew and his Deputy Davison were presenting along with Sheriff Sarabyn and Chief Strong. This meeting was being held outside on the front steps of City Hall. Mayor Andrew nervously thumbed his pre-written flashcards. The crowd viewed him with withering skepticism. Best get this over with.

"Good morning to everyone, citizens of Osceola Mills, members of the press, and our partners in law enforcement. Today we will be addressing rising concerns over recent events. Before I do, let's have a round of applause for the brave men and women of our law enforcement departments." A smattering of polite golf claps rolled over the crowd, and promptly ceased. "They have worked tirelessly to ensure our safety and security, for which we must be grateful. Now, about certain happenings around our town and county. While everyone certainly has a part to play, and an obligation to assist law enforcement whenever asked, second-guessing and uninformed speculation are detrimental to that responsibility. Such formulation of ideas is best left to trained professionals. Now, my next point of order…"

. . .

"…Is to make perfectly clear, that such acts as arson, sabotage, disruption of social order, sedition, and other such terroristic and treasonous deeds, will not only never be tolerated, but will be pursued and punished to the fullest extent of the law." Mayor Aldrich decreed. He paused, both for effect and a sip of water. "In the name of the very best of your safety, security, and interest, I have preemptively consulted with our partners in law enforcement. They too have taken notice of your concerns, voiced through calls, editorials, and letters, and have drafted common sense resolutions to implement a dynamic, sophisticated, and efficient task force to root out those deplorable degenerates hidden in our midst. To better explain these common sense measures, I have invited Captain Chojnacki and Chief Warburg to speak today. Captain, the podium is yours.

. . .

"Thank you Mayor Andrew for those reassuring remarks." Sheriff Sarabyn laid his flashcards on the podium. "I would like to begin with some reassuring remarks of my own. Please know everything possible to be done, is being carried out as I speak. While it is not my intention to alarm the public, it cannot be ignored that a network of radicalists have descended upon us. To counter this threat, deputies, patrolmen, and even local officers under Chief Strong, have begun mapping the hierarchal makeup and identified persons of interest, through intensive intelligence gathering. Our next step, which will be rolling out within days…"

. . .

"…Will be to put these troublemakers on notice, to let them know we are not a po-dunk push-over, but a capable and competent force to be respected, and reckoned with." Captain Chojnacki promised his audience and flipped to his next flash card. "That we are not a reactionary, but proactive force. That we are vigilant and on constant watch. That we are unafraid to be on the street instead of hiding in an office behind a desk. That we are willing to go into harm's way, to make the tough, uncomfortable decisions no one else is willing to even contemplate. So, to those out there that have carried out these cowardly deeds, know that your days are numbered, all of us are coming for you, and justice will be served. Thank you for your time, and Mayor Aldrich for this opportunity to speak. Mayor, I'm turning the podium back over to you."

"Let's have another round of applause for the inspiring message, and commitment to their sworn duty!" Mayor Aldrich resumed his station at front and center. "It is unfair to follow that, so I think we'll take a few quick questions…"

. . .

"…Yes, you!" Mayor Andrew selected an unfamiliar face. In a sea of Hungarian, German, Scotch-Irish, English, and Polish ancestry, the man's Japanese features set him apart. "What's your question?"

"Thank you Mayor Andrew. I was wondering: what tangible…?" The man began but Andrew interrupted.

"I'm sorry sir. I didn't catch your name and paper?"

"Arsene Lupin, Futabasha. Now, what…?"

"I don't recall seeing your name on the press list, Mister…?"

"Lupin. And no, you didn't. But that's not important." Arsene continued on before Andrew could get another objection in. "What _tangible_ measures and actions can the people expect to see and experience? I have heard many reassuring platitudes, but no words on what will _actually_ happen; on the street so-to-speak."

"Oh. Well, I…think that would be best answered by Chief Strong. Care to field Mister Lupin's question Chief?"

"Certainly." Chief Strong stepped up to the podium. This was off the flashcards, but he was willing to take a shot. "Now, Mister…?"

"Lupin." Arsene politely reminded.

"Lupin. You can expect to see an increased presence, focused on deterrence and community outreach."

"And…?"

"And…strategically placed zones for cautionary inspections, to clamp down on trafficking illicit materials used in the attacks."

" _And…_?"

"Annnd…checks on suspicious persons or loiterers around buildings or utilities of critical importance."

" _AND…_?"

" _Annnd_ …exhaustive efforts to track down the perpetrators and deny them safe havens. Anything _else_ , Mister Lupin?"

"That will do for now." Lupin wasn't taking notes or running a recorder. He instead was looking Chief Strong straight in the eye; and the Chief blinked. He couldn't match the stare. "Please correct me where I go astray, but it sounds like you're saying we should expect armed patrols, roadblocks, random searches and frisking, and house-to-house raids. Is that correct Chief?"

"Well, I, I wouldn't use such forceful words Mister Lupin. That kind of inflammatory language…"

"You are avoiding my question." Arsene interjected. "Let's expand on it, since you're focused on wording rather than denying what I said. Wouldn't all the tactics you propose, be a grievous violation of the Fourth Amendment, and I suppose the Third as well?"

. . .

"I'm pleased, Mister…?" Chief Warburg stumbled as he tried to recall the name of the irritating teenager in motocross boots.

"Bowman, sir. Henry Bowman."

"Mister Bowman, I am pleased someone your age is taking an interest in your community, but this line of questioning is…"

"All I asked is if your officers will be randomly stopping people to search them and asking for our identification at will."

"Which is unhelpful to the discussion Mister Bowman…"

"Allow me to phrase it differently." Henry said from his corner at the back of the room. "Ihre Papiere, bitte."

"Mister Bowman, I…"

"German didn't do it? How about this: Tovarishah. Vashi dokumenty, pozhaluysta."

"That is _quite_ enough young man!" Chief Warburg motioned for one of the officers present in the hall. "Please remove Mister Bowman from the hall. He is causing a disturbance, and acting childish."

"Don't bother. I'll see myself out." Henry Bowman, as he called himself, was halfway out the door. He stopped to ask one last question. "At least answer the crowd this: Why did you frame Rick Stilton? He's just the manager of McDonalds. What did he ever do to you?" Henry Bowman tossed this last thought grenade, letting it go off in a stunned silence as he slammed the door shut behind him.

. . .

"Mister Lupin, this is hardly conduct befitting a reporter; if that's really what you are." Chief Strong's eyes narrowed in suspicion at the ponytailed and bespectacled man insisting on rocking the boat. "Or are you here to cause trouble?"

"You are correct in that I am _not_ a reporter." Arsene agreed, much to the surprise of everyone. Then he stunned them further by saying: "I am a journalist. My role is to ask questions, to draw out answers you do not wish to see the light of day. A reporter merely reports things, and regurgitates your cliché talking points like a trained parrot; with no will or original thought of its own. An insult to journalism, and to an informed citizenry. Unless, of course, that's what you actually want. A society that _doesn't_ question you, and does whatever it's told?"

"If you do not stop this, this, seditious speech, I will have you removed from this discussion!" The words just slipped out. Chief Strong knew he had crossed a line. A ripple went through the crowd, a series of troubled whispers and murmurs followed, and deadness crept into the air. Arsene Lupin, as he called himself, looked on Chief Strong, the Mayors, and City Council, with a surprised disappointment. After a moment of painful silence, he slowly spoke.

"So not only the Third and Fourth, but the First as well. Tell me, what's next? Our Second? No, don't answer. I already think we know." He looked around at wide-eyed faces. "Excuse me. I apologize for causing a scene. It is unlike me. I don't know what came over me; forgive my conduct. I would stay for the remainder of this conference, but I have heard more than enough." Before anyone on the steps recovered enough to order him stopped, Arsene Lupin turned on his heel, marched away, and disappeared around the corner.

. . .

"Well! That was a complete, fucking catastrophe!" Deputy Mayor Vanderlip collapsed on the couch in Mayor Aldrich's office. After the departure of Henry Bowman, the meeting had dissolved into chaos. The gathered crowd turned into a frothing mob, hurling questions and demands faster than could even be understood. The officials had tossed off a closing remark before scurrying up to their fourth floor offices. Left behind were the police officers, Chief Warburg, and Captain Chojnacki, to disperse and clear the hall.

"I didn't expect even _half_ that many people!" Aldrich slumped at his deck. "Sure, we had our points prepared ahead of time, which helped. But usually it's just a bunch of doddering old fucks, bitching about some kid on his dirt bike. Did you see how many people there were?! And man, were they pissed!"

"It was that Bowman kid, he started it; got everyone riled up." Duke Smith, Head of Clearfield County Clerks, made his accusation. "Everything was hunky-dory up 'till then."

"Who, in-the-blistering-fuck, is Henry Bowman anyway?" Vanderlip wondered aloud.

"Dunno. But he's added himself to The List; that's for Goddamn sure." Aldrich decreed. "Find out if we have anything on a Henry Bowman."

"What I want to know, is where was The Man?" Vanderlip was still wondering aloud. "No support from him, at all. Sure, he gave us flashcards. But was he there when we got in trouble? When the hard questions came up? Noooo…"

"You shut up. You shut up right damn now with that kind of talk." Smith growled from the Mayor's computer. "It's above my rank to say so, but if The Man finds out you're back-talking, we're all dead."

"You are both reasoned in your statements." Aldrich sought to soothe the tension in the room. "While The Man holds considerable power, that does not mean he is immune from criticism. I would agree with Vanderlip that we cannot be blamed if this plan of The Man's does not work." A nodding consensus was shown as they all shirked responsibility. "We never stood a chance. The Man said he's done this before. Shouldn't he have known what we'd be up against? No coaching, nothing. No backup when the people started going feral, nothing…"

"I have something on Henry Bowman." Smith piped up. He waved his smartphone and read: "Henry Bowman is the principal character of the novel 'Unintended Consequences' by John Ross. The story chronicles the history of gun culture, gun rights, and gun control in the United States, from the early nineteen hundreds, to the late nineteen nineties. Although…"

"Where are you reading this from?"

"Wikipedia."

"What is the plot of the book?" Chief Warburg had finally joined them, and was catching up on the conversation.

"It's kinda long…but basically Henry Bowman fights off a bunch of corrupt and immoral ATF agents, and starts a civil war where hundreds of government agents and politicians get killed…oh…oh good Christ…"

. . .

Osceola Mills' City Hall had not fared any better. If anything, it was much worse. Beating a hasty retreat, the officials and police had pulled the doors shut behind them. Fists still pounded on the doors and rattled the office windows. With the shades and curtains drawn, the faces couldn't be seen, but the shouting was still clear.

"What the HELL was that?!" Mayor Andrew rounded on Sheriff Sarabyn. "Let me see your cards."

"I read what was on them word for word." Sarabyn smacked his cards onto Andrew's desk. "Don't throw me under the bus. I was just following the script."

"It wasn't a well-written script, I'll say that much." Deputy Mayor Davison peeked around a set of shades. He shrank back when an angry face appeared in the gap. "I really hope they'll leave soon. I've got a tee-time at noon."

"You're worried about your _golf_ game?!" Head of Centre County Clerks Elliot Rogers was aghast. "Respectfully, don't we have bigger problems?"

"No, I think it's more of a bigger _problem._ Singular." Strong seemed to have mortal harm on his mind.

"That Lupin guy?" Sarabyn guessed.

" _NO…_ " Strong rolled his eyes. "Yes! That little rat bastard made us look like jackasses!"

"Do we have an Arsene Lupin in the database; or on The List?" Davison asked. Andrew offered his computer for Rogers to use. "I've never seen that guy before. Did anyone recognize him?"

"Must be an out-of-towner." Sarabyn shrugged. "Strong. Anything?"

"Nope. I thought it'd be the Mayor's responsibility to know his citizens…"

"I can't be expected to know every Tom, Dick, and Harry in this town!" Andrew protested. "What the hell do you think any of us have staff and secretaries for?! Rogers!"

"Sir!" Rogers jumped at his name.

"Got anything?!"

"N-not in the database, no."

"Well…just, fuckin' Google him, or something." Andrew ordered and paced his office.

"Penny for your thoughts?" Davison prompted after an unbearable thirty seconds.

"I'm…" Andrew lowered his tone to a hoarse whisper. "I'm starting to think _That Man_ , sold us a lemon. See, here's the thing…"

"Found him, or…something…" Rogers reported.

"Let's hear it."

"Arsene Lupin is a fictional gentleman thief and master of disguise created by French writer Maurice Leblanc." Rogers read to an eyebrow raised audience. "Now, in reference to that Futabasha he mentioned. There's a comic called 'Lupin the Third', the grandson of Leblanc's Lupin. And the publisher of Lupin the Third is…Futabasha."  
"Let me see that." Davison looked at the Wikipedia article and the comic's cover of its title character. "Wait. Wait a hot, damn minute. Wasn't the guy today…wasn't he wearing a red suit jacket, and a yellow tie?"

"He was. What're you gettin' at?" Sarabyn asked with a hint of dread.

"I'm gettin' at this." Davison turned the computer's monitor around so everyone could see the image results and likeness of clothes. "I'm gettin' at that we just got punked by a grown man dressed like a goddamn cartoon character."

. . .

You'll no doubt have noticed by now, that while Naota and Haruko have spent most've this tale and their time hangin' out in a work truck, by themselves, for hours on end, alone…and Tommy goes down 'roundabouts Harrisburg, and Johnny, Josh, and Mike are up to their usual shenanigans at the shop, my day-to-day has been left to the best of your imaginations. Wonder no more, for I shall tell you. Why yes! It is very much illegal what I've been doing. How'd yah guess?

When I'm not meeting with our eyes and ears to find out the what's-what and who's-who, I'm out on some long-forgotten logging or access road that was last mapped sometime around the 1950's, doing looking and listening of my own. For what? Microwaves. The same kind the guvernmint beams into our brains, defeat-able only by cranial covering of aluminium sheets molded into a cap…

RRR—yeeaacckk-ack! Let's pull _that_ record _off_ the turntable, and _ATTEMPT_ being serious, eh Rig?

Spoilsport. **_Fine_**.

I was listening for encrypted radio broadcasts and looking for their main broadcast towers or relay stations. Relay stations are where the signal would be picked up, then amplified again to shoot on to the next station. To do this, I had a few cool toys in the back of my truck.

The sum of the tools makes up what's called a Radio Direction Finder, or RDF. What it does is measures the direction from which a signal was transmitted. This technique is well used in signals intelligence in the military. Using RDF is how the Brits sunk a quarter of all German U-Boats lost during the war. They may have been sneaky, quiet, and stealthy, but eventually they had to surface and get orders from Berlin. While my quarry wasn't as dangerous itself, or underwater, the basic idea is still the same.

In my truck there is, of course, the police scanner, the CB, and now the RDF unit I added in the past month. The RDF has three parts: a receiver, the antennae, and what's called an attenuator; to filter out unwanted signals. The way this works is inside the receiver is this little Wizard, excuse me, computer, that listens to the radio wave and determines what directions it came from. Notice how I said direction(s). Smart as the computer is, it can't tell if the signal is coming or going. It will give you a compass bearing, but also a bearing in the complete 180-degree opposite direction. To do that, I have a small array of antennae on the roof that'll pick up the radio's broadcast at differing strengths. The antennae that pick up the strongest signal are used to plot the line of direction.

Since that'll only give you a 180-degree line, say, either north-east and south-west, you need more data! That means you have to drive a mile or so away from the first line at a 90-degree angle, which you plotted in pencil on your big ole' map of the county…you did that? Good. After relocating, and sometimes relocating two or three, or four or five, times because you lost the signal, your RDF listens in and plots again. Now you have _two_ lines, one ends going away from each other and the other ends converging. Where these lines intersect is the broadcast location. Not terribly complicated but you can see why it's so time-consuming. More so when there are so many ridges and valleys a radio signal can reflect off, get lost in, or sail unheard over your head.

Once I had the location relatively pinpointed (Within a mile or so is close enough if you don't mind walking. You do mind? Well…tough. Spend your own money on a fancier set-up, I'm not made of money.) I'd drive as close as I could, then walk, then sneak, the rest of the way. The favorite habitat of radio companies to place their towers is on top of mountains, or in a line along a ridge. An updated topographic map will help you find the highest and most likely perches. Most of these towers are in the middle of bumble-fuck-nowhere, dozens of miles from the nearest town, so the most security you'll run into is a chain link fence with rusty barbed wire and a hefty padlock. While I wish I could tell you of a clever fence scaling technique, or how to pick a heavily corroded padlock in ten seconds flat or your money back…I'd be bullshittin' you. Ain't _nobody_ got time fo' dat.

The easier, and less sophisticated, way is to bring a pair of bolt cutters.

H.K. Porter Powerlink 24-inch Bolt and Wire Cutter, all yours at the low-low price of $49.99, at Shantz Hardware in Phillipsburg, PA.

Rated 10/10, would cut fences with again.

Snip a single line in the fence up from the ground, just enough so you can bend the wires back and crawl under. Do not cut the padlock. That will let someone know you were there. Also do not get your backpack hooked on the fence, or you will squirm for a good ten minutes like a rolly-polly dog squeezing through a too-tiny flap door. Just take the extra second to pull your backpack in behind you. Once inside the fence, you climb. Oh yes. I hope you're not afraid of heights. How does 100 feet up with 20-mph winds sit you?

One reason the towers aren't guarded well is because of their remoteness, low attractiveness to thieves, (What kind of doofus is gonna trek through the woods for hopes of finding something of value on a radio tower? Oh. Right.) and because they put the damn technician's box halfway up the friggin' tower; the clever, sadistic bastards they are.

First thing's first. Put your backpack of tools on the front of your body; yes, like that one weird as fuck kid in middle school. Don't lie to me, we all had that one weird kid. Maybe you were that kid. You know, the one that ran with his arms behind his back like some autistic ninja 'cause he watched too much Naruto. Anyway, hook your two straps into the brackets on your belt; there should be one on each hip. Hook the other ends of the straps onto the tower, and start climbing.

Along the way, stop to enjoy the scenery, admire the view, and try not to get blown off while being alone in your head. People can quickly get tired of an overlook like one a hundred feet above a thousand foot tall ridge. I guess I'm not one of them. They just see a green carpet of leaves, occasional outcroppings of boulders. I see greens, yellows, greys, blacks, even in summer before the fall changes the colors. Look long enough and you'll realize there are no such things as those brown tree trunks you colored in kindergarten. They're actually mottled greens, mossing over patchworks of grey, and forbidding black, but never have I ever, seen a brown tree trunk. Look farther and longer still and you'll find clefts and dimples in the mountains where criks have made their marks over tens of thousands of years, the jagged valleys gouged by a glacier's slow march and rapid retreat; some of its buried water still bubbling up in springs. Then you'll look up. Clouds passing miles above and even miles taller, each millions of gallons of water in composition. And if you're lucky, there will even be a few stars out. Each star potentially a sun with planets of its own, or the finally arrived light of a galaxy thousands of light years removed.

Here a lot of people would remark that the knowledge I have of Overwatch, the other agencies, and Galactic Government with its 1,387 different life supporting planets, would all conspire to make me feel infinitely small and statistically insignificant; and such remarks would be couched with a hint of fear. I don't see it that way. To know there are others besides ourselves in the great nothing of space, and I would someday go off-planet like George, Tommy, Shifty, my Dad and Grandad had all before me, and see the first fringes of an ever-expanding realm, and to know my actions here against Medical Mechanica and The Red Star will have ripples across ALL of that…makes me feel not so insignificant anymore. Just because you are small in the grand scheme of things, does not make you unimportant.

In my hands and under my boots, the tower rattled and groaned, straining against its tethering cables. The wind was picking up. A technician's box is about the size of a shoebox, covered in 1040 painted and galvanized steel, and secured with, of all things, a simple tubular lock. If you happen to have a lathe and a pile of scrap steel at home, and know what you're doing, you can easily make dozens of blank keys and forget the bother of picking each lock once you find a key that works. Opening the door will give you the tech's panel, with its display screen, access ports, and a choke point for all the tower's cables. Plug in your handy-dandy diagnostic tool for digital broadcasting radios (you got this off flea-bay for $20) and bring up broadcasting options.

'Wait, why aren't you shutting down the tower? Isn't that the point?'

Nope. That would be _waaaaay_ too easy. If I did that, the cops would know someone was screwing with their communications and would use some other form to talk. They would also send someone out to see what the problem was, potentially catching me with my hand up their girl's skirt, and certainly fixing the tower in short order. All I was telling the radio to do was, once it had received the incoming transmission, rebroadcast in _two_ frequencies instead of just one. And as a matter of course, the second frequency was our own Overwatch encrypted signal. With that done, I removed the diagnostic tool and inserted a device Josh had designed and Mike had built. Because technicians don't like climbing towers unless they have to, the tower can also be worked on remotely for minor issues. So they broadcast their own unique signal for this purpose. I spliced our little device into the company's broadcast line to their private dish at the tippety-top, and then the other two wires into the electric power supply from the solar panels. Then I cut the power line between the two new leads I had spliced and taped in.

Now the power went through our device and into the unit itself. All our device was, was a remote activated switch. Whenever we wanted, we could remotely access the radio tower and tell the device to open, cutting the power off. Granted, we had neglected to figger out how to turn the damn thing back _ON_ because it relied on the same power as the radio tower…but we'd decided we'd have bigger problems if it came to that. Last, as a finishing touch of my own, I'd leave two surprises for any repairman sent out to get the radios back online if we killed the power. You'll have to be patient and find out what I did later. I almost feel sorry for 'em. _Almost._

Back on the ground, and under the fence again, I hustled back to the truck. It was close to noon now and there was no telling how many more towers were out there. So far, over a month of listening, I'd found eight. That's an average of two a week folks. There could only be those eight…or there could be fifty. So I had no time to waste. Once again in my truck I was just about to start up when my phone rang. An unlisted number. Hmmm…interesting.

"Man-Eater BBQ; you kill 'em, we grill 'em."

"Good one Cuzzin' Jeff. Ah'll haftah borrow tha' one!"

"Country?! How'd you get this number?"

"Very carefully." In the background I could hear something mechanical running; loudly running. He was airborne, somewhere. "Hey, is tha runway out-back ah yer house still operational?"

"Not at the moment. There's a huge crater in it."

"There's ah wha'…never mind. Is at least half open?"

"Yep."

"Good, tha's all Ah'll need. Be comin' 'round 'bout an hour or so."

"Wait, hang on…" He'd hung up. Welp…change of plans.

. . .

The parts had been easy to make once their tolerance issues had been sorted. That had been the challenge, getting everything down to 0.001 of an inch took some figuring. For most parts, Naota and Haruko had made several custom jigs, forms, and clamps from spare parts and scraps. The most complicated part on the list had been the long tubes with their spiral grooves. Those had taken most of the morning to get the lathes set just right. The rest of the parts, Naota believed, could be made in a barn, garage, or basement if needed or that was all you had. A tabletop drill press, a hacksaw, (they had used a benchtop and powered saw to speed things along) files, an angle grinder, a hammer, square, reamer set, taper cutter, countersink tool, and a sturdy vice, would be all you'd need. Even the bakery in Mabase had most of those tools on hand, and the rest were a quick trip to the hardware store away.

In summary, each list consisted of 44 parts. A small, L-shaped plate, a cut-down hex key, 14 shaft lock collars, 4 very large lock collars, the tube with spiral grooves, 3 flat bars and strips of steel, 2 machined steel rods, a roll of thick piano wire, 2 pieces of spring steel, a steel rod put under a hydraulic press to bend it into a mild curve halfway down its length, a strip of steel folded in half and molded around tubes to act as a kind of collar, and 12 socket screws. They had separated the parts into a divided plastic tool tray and awaited Rig's return. While they waited, Haruko stared down at the box.

"Hey, are you gonna help me or not?" Naota had one of the lathes open and was cleaning out the steel shavings that had gotten inside.

"In a minute." She had her arms folded and stared down with a puzzled frown. "No, that's not…could put that…no, that's not right…"

"Heh-hem." He reminded. Nothing. "Heh-hem!" Still nothing. "Hey, wanna-be!...Has-been!...Evil alien…"

"You say something?" Good to know that one still worked.

"What are you doing, staring at the parts?"

"It looks like they're supposed to go together, somehow."

"Well, _duh_. They're, what did he say? _Novelty, decorative_ , drinking fountain parts. Of course they fit together. That's the point."

"It's not like that."

"Then what is it like?" He hefted a torsion wrench to make certain all the lathe's bolts were properly tight. It would not do for the 15-foot long machine to rattle apart at 3,000 RPM.

"It, they, the parts, look like…" She trailed off, then shook her head. "Never mind. Seeing things…"

"That's called Pareidolia." Mike explained. He was passing by to check Naota's maintenance.

"Para-what?"

"Pareidolia. A psychological phenomenon where the mind responds by seeing a familiar pattern where none exists." Mike peered down his glasses into the lathe's gearbox. "Think of, say, The Man in the Moon, The Face on Mars, those hidden messages in music."

"Like the Satanic verses in Led Zeppelin albums when yah play 'em backwards?" Haruko volunteered.

"You could consider that Pareidolia, I suppose, yes." Mike agreed. He approved of Naota's work by shutting the gearbox. "Do _you_ believe in those messages?"

"Nah." They both dismissed the idea. "You?"

"Well, I don't know about the messages, be they from Led Zeppelin, Judas Priest, Chicago, or otherwise." Mike stroked his beard as he did while in thought. "But I do know of a Satan."

" _You DO?!_ "

"Oh yes." He gave a hearty chuckle. "If you're at my house, using my good stereo, destroying my good needles, to wreck my good turntable, and ruining my good Led Zeppelin vinyl's, listening for Satanic messages…I've got news for you. You _ARE_ , Satan."

"Yah know what?" Haruko gave Mike and Naota alternating sideways glances, before settling on Naota. With a jerk of her thumb, she pointed at Mike. "He ain't wrong, Nao'. I'll say that much. He ain't wrong."

"I think if someone did that to my Dad's, or Gramps', records, they'd get to _meet_ Satan."

"I'd believe that." Mike agreed in a tone stating he truly meant it. "No doubt."

"Wait, really?" Naota felt a tad sidetracked. His Dad, reader of Monkey Punch? His Gramps, purveyor of Playboy? Either of them really, _truly,_ furiously angry? He couldn't imagine it because he'd never seen it. "I mean, I was just kidding." Mike slowly smiled.

"There are three things a wise man must fear. Can you guess them?"

"Fear itself?" Haruko threw out as a half-guess.

"One: The Sea in a storm."

"Obviously." Haruko drolled. It wasn't obvious. But, we'll let her have this one.

"Two: A night with no Moon."

"And third?"

"And Three: The Anger of a Gentle Man."

. . .

"Ten-hut!"

"As you were." Captain Chojnacki let the Patrol officers return to their seats. "Okay, assignments for the week. You should've gotten the emails. All that's left is to decide who gets Black Moshannon." At mention of that dark forest, the proud and brash Patrolmen shrank into their chairs. Each tried to look as small as possible to avoid the patrol of the twisting woodland roads. Most of the officers in the State Patrol had not grown up hunting, they lived outside of the gun culture, and within the security of their subdivisions. To them, Black Moshannon was a come-to-life Mirkwood; giant spiders, goblins, orcs, The Necromancer and all.

"I'll…I'll go."

"Patrolman Hynen?" Captain Chojnacki peered at the young officer at the back of the briefing room. "You bucking for a promotion son?"

"No Captain. Just, someone's got to go, and I don't mind Black Moshannon; too much." He explained with a shrug.

"You've always been a strange one. Alright, anyone wanna fight for it? No? Okay. Hynen, you're dismissed. Good hunting."

"Thank you Captain." Hynen stood, saluted, collected his things and left. Chojnacki finished the rest of the assignments, leaving the Special Weapons and Tactics teams for last.

"Sir, have you kept us back for something…special?"

"Yes, Kauffman. I have." Chojnacki pulled down the projector screen and connected his laptop. "Here's the deal. The Man met with me, Sheriff Sarabyn, and Chiefs Strong and Warburg. All of us have been given the go-ahead." A series of smiles and grins filled the remaining troopers.

" _Finally!_ " One burst out, unable to contain his excitement.

"Keep in your pants, Royster." Chojnacki restored decorum. "Our job is to clip some wings around here. Before anything major kicks off, the big show, it's up to us to make sure the stage is cleared. We are NOT going to let some goddamn gun nutter, with his basement full of little-dick compensators, get the jump on us because he thinks he's some 'Arsenal of Liberty'. We're gonna do this quickly before anyone around here can figure out what's going on and mount some kind of defense. Which means, we have to get it right, the first time. Am I clear?"

"Yes Captain!" They couldn't wait to be let off their chain.

. . .

Patrolman Hynen had found a perfect spot to sit. He'd backed his Dodge Charger into a small turn-out, a parking spot for hunters to leave their trucks during the fall. Drumming his fingers on the wheel, he scanned the Charger's radio for something to pass the time. It was 'against procedure' to have the car's music radio playing, but not 'technically' an infraction. Besides, he was on solo patrol, so who would know anyway? The only trouble was the reception. It wasn't that great, and the radio only could find the Triple B: Beau's Beats Buffett. Deciding it was better than nothing, he left the knob where it was. Settled, he started checking for any updates on the computer over the console. An orange and black blur blew past his hiding spot, setting off his dash mounted radar.

 _WwwwwhhhHHHOOAAAAMMMMMmmmm…_

 ***BEEP!* *BEEP!* *BEEP!***

"Holy shit, seventy-nine!" He swore, putting the Charger in gear and stomping on the gas to give chase. Instantly he recognized the truck ahead of him, even though it was several hundred yards distant. He'd chased it many times before. Digging two new potholes, Patrolman Hynen felt his body press into the seat and the car rumble as it bounced across the rough dirt road. Although he reflexively punched the button for his lights and siren, in his excitement he forgot to turn off the radio.

"…today's special is all things vehicular. Bikes, cars, trucks, you name it, the Triple-B has a song about it. Here's just a sampler!"

 _My Uncle has a country place, that no one knows about._

 _He says it used to be a farm, before the Motor Law._

 _And on Sundays, I'd elude 'The Eyes', and hop the Turbine Freight,_

 _To far outside The Wire where my white-haired Uncle waits…*_

. . .

 _Jump to the ground as the turbo slows to cross the borderline!_

 _Run like the Wind as excitement shivers up and down my spine!_

 _Down in his barn, my Uncle preserved for me an old machine, for fifty-odd years._

 _To keep it as new has been his dearest dream!_

I felt like singing some on the ride back home, it was the perfect day for it. Doofus I am, I wasn't minding my speedometer as closely as I'd ought've. It was only when I saw that single, red dome light flashing in my rearview did I bother to check.

"What the hell is he…ohhh…fuckity-fuck-fuck- _fuck-fuck_ -Fuck- _Fuck-FUCK!_ " Okay, okay, think, breathe, think, keep calm, breathe. Shift, up into overdrive. Put that pedal to the floor, drop your gun into the false-bottomed console, right hand goes back to the shifting lever. Check your mirrors, yep, still back there. 200 yards, closing, 150, 100 yards. That's a Dodge Charger Pursuit: best at straight lines on the paved highway. But we ain't on the highway, and the road ain't paved. And…I glanced in the mirror as often as I dared, and caught a glimpse of the Patrolman's face.

"Well Hell. That's Patrolman Hynen! This'll be fun!" Might as well keep singing then, can't hurt none.

 _I strip away the old debris that hides a shining car._

 _A brilliant red Barchetta, from a better, vanished time._

 _We'll fire up a willing engine, responding with a roar!_

 _Tires spitting gravel, I commit my weekly crime!_

. . .

Patrolman Hynen had caught up to the Bronco but now the challenge was to pull it over. Catching up on a straight stretch of road was always the easy part. As long as the Bronco stuck to the main roads, Hynen stood a good chance of running him down. Sure enough, the Bronco's driver seemed to know this. At the first chance he got, the Bronco took a hard right, its radio antennae snapping around like a metallic whip. The road it had chosen was an access road for a series of hunting camps; seasonal and chocked full of ruts, holes, and rocks. Both vehicles bounced and tossed their drivers 'round their cabins, Hynen cracking his head against the roof when his front left tire struck a basketball sized rock jutting out from a pothole.

With a street minded suspension, the Charger was putting a beating on its driver. His 5.7 Liter Hemi V8's 370-HP did not help negate his mere 5 whole inches of ground clearance. The terrain was putting up a better fight than his quarry. The Bronco, with at least a foot of clearance, was glossing over the smaller holes and stones, edging away despite its slower speed. That little luck ran out as the first camp appeared and the road improved with it.

 _Wind…in my hair, shifting and drifting…_

 _Mechanical music…adrenaline surge!_

 _Well-weathered leather, hot metal and oil!_

 _The scented country air!_

 _Sunlight on chrome, the blur of the landscape!_

 _Every nerve aware!_

Now he was right behind again, just two car lengths away. The Bronco jinked right, then swerved left across a camp's driveway. He left a pair of tracks across the lawn for Hynen to follow, forcing the steering wheel against its stop to force the Charger to do the one thing it loathed doing: Turn.

Around the camp he chased, swerving to avoid the cinderblock fire ring that would've damaged the Charger enough to take it out of the running. Having spun a grass ripping and dirt throwing doughnut in the back lawn, the Bronco bore down on him. In a split second Hynen had to choose between ramming the Bronco head-on, plowing into the camp's back porch, or stopping. The lesser of the evils, he slammed on the brakes and pulled the parking brake as high as it would go, bringing the Charger to a squealing stop inches shy of the screen door.

"Crazy, reckless, sunova bitch…" He cursed and threw the shifting lever up to reverse, spun forward, dropped the lever down to drive, and took off again as the Bronco fled back down the driveway. "Get your ass back here…" He wondered if the Bronco knew this road was a dead end. Then he wondered, as the Bronco's suspension let it slide over a buried log that rattled Hynen's teeth when the Charger fought its way over, if that the Bronco had chosen this road for the fact it _was_ a dead end.

Sure enough, as the packed dirt turned to leaves and foliage, the Bronco plowed straight on and down the hill beyond. At the bottom of the hill flowed a shallow stream, low enough for the Bronco to clear, but deep enough to swamp a Charger. Taking the downstream route, the Bronco slipped out of sight. But not all was lost. Hynen knew where the stream emptied, into the Black Moshannon River itself. He backtracked up the camp road, watched by spectators on cabin porches. On the main road, Route 504, again, he skidded a right turn, rumbling on sifting dirt as his tires scrabbled for traction. Finding grip he raced north on Black Moshannon Road, and towards the bridge over the stream.

 _Suddenly ahead of me, across the mountainside!_

 _A gleaming alloy air-car shoots towards me, two lanes wide!_

 _I spin around with shrieking tires, to run the deadly race._

 _Go screaming through the valley as another joins the chase!_

There was a gentle, graded slope on either side of the bridge; perfect for climbing out of the stream. Hynen came up to the bridge, glancing left and right, but saw nothing. Could the Bronco have beaten him and continued north? He crossed over, still headed north. Then, in his rearview mirror, he saw a flash of orange.

"He was under the bridge?! Sneaky little…" The Bronco darted down the rest of the stream to where it joined the Black Moshannon. "Is he nuts?! He'll swamp trying to cross…oh wait. The beavers!" The DNR had been keeping tabs on them, the gang of beavers living along the Black Moshannon. The toothy rodents had dammed it up, leaving the river north of it a small trickle through a swath of drying, but still soupy, mud. Seething in jealous envy, Hynen watched the Bronco sling mud as it crossed the riverbed, nearly up to its wheel-wells in the muck.

"If I was in my Jeep instead of this damn street car…wait, I know where he's going!" Hynen continued north, now at full flank speed. The needle climbed on its journey to the 160 MPH mark…100…110…120…the Charger thrummed with power down the straight-aways. "He's headed for Huckleberry, then it's up onto the strippin's past I-80; I'd _never_ catch him in there." A strip coal mine, let alone miles and miles of them, would eat his city cruising Charger whole, then spit it out and demand seconds.

He pushed the pedal further, now at 137 miles an hour he flew; now hardly noticing the potholes as he breezed right over them. Coming up to the intersection of Black Moshannon, the old trail on the other side, and Benner Run Road, he saw no Bronco waiting for him.

 _Drive like the Wind,_

 _Straining the limits of both Machine and Man!_

 _Laughing out loud, with fear and hope!_

 _I've got a desperate plan!_

 _At the one lane bridge, I leave the giants stranded at the riverside._

 _Race back to the farm, to dream with my Uncle at the fireside…*_

"I beat him here! Now to get ahead on Huckleberry and set up...what the HELL?!" Behind him the Bronco dashed across the intersection and instead took Brenner Run Road. "No, no, noooo!" Patrolman Hynen, pointed downhill towards Huckleberry Road, tried to swing his Charger around without brakes; hoping letting off the gas alone would lose enough speed. If it had been a paved road, even just a sturdier, better maintained dirt road, he would have made it. Downhill he slid, his tires slipping and sliding across shifting stones and dirt. Across a bed of pebbles and dust his Charger's back end hydroplaned, throwing him rear first into the ditch. With his Charger pointed skywards at forty-five degrees, Hynen could feel the solidness of Earth under his seat. His Charger's five inch clearance had done him in: the souped up pursuit car was solidly bottomed out. Without a winch, he was stuck.

Slowly he exited his vehicle and stood along the roadside with his thumb in the air; waiting. The engine beside him quietly hissed and plinked as it cooled, having been nearly redlined on his last sprint. He didn't have to wait long. A minute later the Bronco emerged from Brenner Run Road, a thin wisp of steam around it, and pulled up next to his Charger.

. . .

With my hands still shaking, throat desert-dry, and engine temperature degrees shy of 'Do not exceed: Here be Dragons' I stopped next to Officer Hynen. He was standing in front of his Charger, its front end aimed skyward. On his face he wore a frown, and his right hand had a raised thumb. After shutting down and keeping my hands visible, I rolled my window down.

"Good afternoon, Officer." I greeted as politely as I could without sounding like a jackass. Without batting an eye, and maintaining a professional manner enviable of any man, he asked:

"Do you know why I stopped you today?"

"No sir, I do not."

"I have you clocked going seventy-nine in a fifty mile an hour zone; twenty-nine miles an hour over."

"I am terribly sorry Officer. I should have been paying better attention."

"Yes, you should have. Just what compelled you to drive at such a reckless speed?"

"Honestly sir? I am just trying to keep up with the flow of traffic."

"Keep up, with the flow, of traffic." He looked up Black Moshannon Road, back to me, down Black Moshannon Road, then back to me again. "That's strange. I don't see any traffic."

"Well respectfully Sir; that just proves how far behind I am." Judging by his facial reaction, you'd have thought I'd just said the dumbest combination of words strung together by the sum of all mankind; this side of 'I know winter is coming soon, but I think we should invade Russia now all the same.' He shut his eyes tight, pursed his lips tight and a vein ticked on his temple. I feared for a moment he was about to explode. Then, my saving grace. The corner of his mouth tugged into the smallest of reluctant half-smiles. Then he opened his eyes, no longer filled with malice.

"You're a cheeky bastard, Carson. Alright…that was a new one." He said, then added: "And it was even funny."

"I'm glad you think so." I looked past him at the deep blue Charger, now half brown in dust. "Do I have time to render assistance, or should I be on my way?

"No, I didn't call for backup." He swept off his hat and scratched his buzzcut hair, rubbing a small bump atop his head. "I'm not a sore loser."

"I really do appreciate that Sir. If it's alright, I have a few chains in the back we can use."

"That'd be fine. Come on out, I know you're not gonna try anything stupid." Officer Hynen waved me out and walked back to his car to put away his hat and put the gear in neutral. Even though he seemed at ease, I knew to behave. On his hip hung a brand new H&K 45. Oh, I realize you have to be confused as HELL. So I'll clear some stuff up now, cool?

Officer Hynen is, well obviously a State Patrolman. We do not count him amongst our number in Overwatch. Risking the effort to recruit a cop has been deemed too high. He is one of the youngest officers, only about 25-26 years old. The two of us have crossed paths before while searching for truck parts; me for my Bronco, him for his treasured rock-crawling Jeeps. His build was that of a marathon runner, but with a pair of powerful and calloused mechanic's hands; the tell-tale dark marks of oil and grease under his nails. A strong chin, short, hard nose, and solid brow made up his face. A sprawling tattoo covered his left forearm, and the fringes of another peered from the edge of his lapel; indicating at least one more on his shoulder and chest. The origins behind the tattoos are stories I do not know to tell, and knew better than to ask.

In short order we had pulled his Charger free of the ditch. After checking it for damages and finding none, he asked if he could see under the Bronco's hood. I didn't have a problem with that. He wasn't being a sore loser by arresting me, so there was no point in being a poor winner.

"A Ford Coyote, not bad. How did you get one though?" He asked, inspecting the still warm engine.

"Estate auction. I actually found most of the parts I needed there. This old man had kicked the bucket and his kids came over from New York City to settle everything."

"Let me guess…a bunch of no-good, young urban professionals, driving around like royalty in their Escalades?"

"The very same, Sir. Cadillac: Can American Designers Invent Lovely Lines? Apparently, Can't."

"That sounds about right. So what was wrong with the original this engine came in?"

"It was a run of the mill frame, and rusted to Hell and back; more holes than metal."

"Then what is this one?" He stood back to look at the truck as a whole. "There's a reason they call it Found On Road Dead. And this's a…seventy-eight. You should have rattled it to pieces."

"It is a seventy-eight that had been converted and strengthened to be a Baja truck. I just put the seventy-eight body back on, after a great deal of coaxing to make it fit."

"So, you could drive this up and down sand dunes?"

"In theory, yes Sir."

"I don't know if I could do that with my Jeep, run dunes."

"That's what you get with Junk Engineering Executed Poorly."

"Hey now…" He started to say something, then looked back at his Charger. "Then again, I have to bomb around in Dear Old Dad's Garage Experiment. Jeep sounds pretty good next to that, eh?"

"I would say it does, yes."

"You still got lucky today."

"I have no illusions, or delusions, Sir. If we had been on pavement instead of dirt, even with the same routes and turns, and it was anyone else, I'd be wearing handcuffs right now. You had me dead to rights at least twice."

"And don't you forget it!" He wagged a finger at me. "So now, since you've won, that makes us even. Right?"

"We are tied, two to two."

"So we are…Well?" He sat down on the hood of his Charger as if waiting for something.

"Sir?"

"Whenever we run into each other, you always have questions, things you want to know."

"To be honest, I had not planned to find you today. You surprised me."

"Did I? Now _that's_ funny. Seriously though, what's up? Remember, I _am_ a police officer. I'm trained to read people."

"Alright." I truly had not planned on running into him. All the same, it never hurts to have a few ruminating questions on deck just in case the opportunity arises. "What are the new MRAP's for?"

"How do you know about those?" He didn't deny it…

"When the last truck delivering a new pair slid off the road and nearly rolled over, we were the ones who brought out the mobile crane to pick it up and put it back on the road."

"Mmm…that follows." He reluctantly nodded.

"I got to talking with the driver, asking how he had messed up. His complaint was the MRAP's are too top heavy. That's why he nearly rolled on a curve he'd taken a dozen times, with heavier loads."

"That too follows. I'm sorry, I can't tell you what they're for."

"Okay, how about the Bearcats then?"

"How did you know about _those_ too?" I'm full of miscellaneous info.

"Toll booth operator on I-80, and a gas station clerk in Woodland. The first saw the trucks come through his gate. The second pumped their diesel for 'em. Four brand new Bearcats, built by Lenco. Painted State Patrol blue too."

"That's…impressive, of you. And you are right about them. But I can't tell you what they're for either."

"How about what they _aren't_ for? Are the Russians planning an invasion?"

"No, no…no Russians."

"Surely, the Chinese PLA then?"

"Nope, not the Chinese then."

"Oh my God…it's the North Koreans!"

"None of them are invading! Where do you get these ideas Jeff?"

"Must be those violent video games."

"Sure, why not. Look, there are no Russians massing at the Alaskan border, no Chinese paratroopers ready to take Hawaii. Nothing like that to worry about."

"Respectfully Sir, I have to disagree."

"Oh? Why?"

"You know of my cousin Georgie; he's deployed to Afghanistan right now. His last deployment, he was in an MRAP; same as yours but with different paint. They were out 'n' about, and ran over an IED. His guess was it was made from an unexploded artillery shell. It flipped them over, rolled them halfway down the mountain, and scrambled everyone inside like they were in a washin' machine. No one got hurt."

"The MRAP is one tough mother. What's your point?"

"If an MRAP can take a hit from a one-oh-five, what do you guys here at home need ten of them?"

"You started with two. How did you get to ten?"

"The other ones that arrived by rail. I know one of the yardmasters."

"I hate a smart kid, I really do…" He mumbled to himself, shaking his head. "You've obviously done your homework, so I guess you've earned a hint. Now remember. Not a word leaves this conversation."

"Of course."

"…The Brass are worried. With the election going on, economy as it is, people on and offline making a lot of noise that sounds serious, they're worried about people trying to make themselves into modern John Brown's at Harper's Ferry."

"I know that story. Brown tried to start a slave revolt by taking a Federal Armory."

"That's right. And they're worried, with everyone so keyed up these days, someone's going to crack and do something incredibly dumb. They're trying to make sure no one gets hurt, or hurts themselves trying."

"So, it's a preemptive thing?"

"It's just being prepared; but in a way, I suppose you could think of it that way, yes."

"Anyone I should avoid being seen with out in respectable society?"

"If you're asking for names, I can't give you those." His face twisted at the edges and he shifted on the Charger's hood. There was more, reams more. For whatever reason he couldn't, or wouldn't. You decide which is worse. "But there are some people around here that are of interest that we're keeping an eye on."

"An eye on? Like, a watch list?"

"…Yes."

"…Am I on it?"

"Don't fill yourself with delusions."

"Seriously, Sir. Should I be worried?"

"Jeff, you're a good kid…"

"Then should I be worried for my family?"

"…The Carson name…is not popular at the office. My advice would be to keep your heads down. Be like one of those Ohio class submarines: a hole in the noise."

"The nail that sticks up gets hammered down."

"Take a vacation." He suggested, starting to become visibly uncomfortable. Now he was looking up and down the road, the trees behind me, his boots…anywhere but at me. "Get out of town. Go on an adventure for the rest of the summer before school starts."

"Something terrible's coming, isn't there?"

"…I hope not…" He said more for himself, I think. "Things are, things are going to change Jeff. Things are going to change, and in ways you cannot imagine, and I cannot begin to explain. When it's all over, we both will not recognize the results for what they are. I know I shouldn't tell you any of this…but…"

"But what, Sir?"

"But I know I owe you, your Cousin, and Uncle, my life. So this is the least I can do. You have, at best, two weeks. Realistically, one week. One week to take a vacation that will last past Labor Day. And anyone you care about, take them with you."

"Officer Hynen, forgive me for asking…but is there anything I can do to help you? Is there…?"

"NO. I owe enough already as it is. So no. I've made my decisions on my own circumstances, and have to live with them."

"…As you wish."

"That all, for today?"

"For today, yes. If you have no objections, I'll be on my way."

"Get going. But hey, seriously. My dash camera can only _malfunction_ so many times. Slow it down."

"Yes Officer, I understand; and I will." I got into my Bronco, started back up and turned to home. "It was good to race again. Bring your Jeep over to the shop sometime, if you feel inclined."

"I'll think about it." And he left it at that.

"Good day, Officer Hynen."

"Good day, Mister Carson. Drive safe."

. . .

* * *

*Red Barchetta - Rush

I had originally written out the chase between Rig and Patrolman Hynen to be 'Eastbound and Down' by Jerry Reed. It was used to great effect in 'Smokey and The Bandit', a great movie about a car chase. I also considered 'I can't drive 55' by Sammy Hagar. But neither didn't seem to fit quite as well as Rush. Red Barchetta seemed to fit better with the theme. Maybe I'll find an excuse to use 'Eastbound and Down' some other time.

If there's one profession I hold in lower standing than payday loan sharks, it's politicians. What a bunch of weasels. Nothing against actual weasels, of course. This group reminds me of the politicians in 'Atlas Shrugged' and how nothing was ever their fault when anything went wrong, but they were front and center when something went well; even if they had nothing to do with it.

Patrolman Hynen seems caught between a rock, a hard place, his conscience, and knowing what's coming down the pike. I hope things work out for him, somehow; and it's not too late for him to see the light.

Also, let's give a round of applause for Shigekuni, and Based Mon-Chan. I actually spent an evening reading on IJA divisions and their histories, trying to find one that saw some action, but wasn't completely wiped out or captured, and also drew recruits from around Mabase. The 17th Division was the closest I could find. Question though, what was Kamon doing in Osceola Mills, so far away from Penn State, and under his favorite alter ego? Who knows...

I am sorry I didn't get this, and Chapter 16 as well, out sooner. But, okay, I'll be real. I picked up Fallout 4. Biggest, and most fun time waster I have ever encountered. It was a little touch and go at first, but that all changed when I found a Fat Man. Things got a lot easier, and more fun, after that.

Thank you again for reading, I know it's got to be a pain waiting for two-three months at a time. You are such a patient group, bless you all! Let me know how I'm doing, and I'll see you over in Chapter 16, thanks again!


	16. Chapter 16

It's put-up or shut-up time for the local P.D., the Sheriff's office, and State Patrol. Their first trial and tribulation for Medical Mechanica's final exam; and there are no do-overs or retaking the test after class. Do they have what it takes to roll with The Red Star's Marines? Get out your notepad and pencil, and judge for yourself. Who will be granted a reprieve, and who will find themselves under Johnny Law's Hammer?

* * *

. . .

"Are there any more questions?" Captain Chojnacki looked at the SWAT teams he had been briefing for the past four hours. "Speak now, or forever hold your peace."

"What time is kick-off again?" An eager officer was reviewing his notes. All were sitting forward on their seats. This was to be their first exercise in the name of Medical Mechanica, and they were anxious to demonstrate their capabilities. It was an unspoken given The Man in Black would be appraising their every action. No one wanted to look weak.

"2200, tonight. Pay attention Roosevelt, or you're gonna miss something small that'll get you killed. Anything else? Questions, comments, concerns?"

"They won't know what hit 'em Captain!"

"Oh they will Vickers, they certainly will. In fact, you'd best be counting on it."

. . .

I made it home just moments to spare. George was getting in his truck and said he was headed for the runway. Country must have called him as well. We drove out and waited along the edge, straining up at the clear sky for any sign of an aircraft.

"Does he do this often?" I asked while George scanned with his binoculars.

"Do what? Randomly call and drop in out of the blue? With no warning, reason, or regard for operational security? That?"

"Yeah."

"I think he lives for it. How'd the morning go?"

"Tagged another tower. It was brand new, must've been to fill in an area without coverage. None are guarded or under surveillance, so there were no problems."

"Then why is your Bronco caked from stem to stern with mud?" Oh yeah…that. Well, Uncle George, it's a funny thing… "Did you decide to go muddin' while you were out?"

"No, I ran into Officer Hynen." After our shouting match over Clyde's trailer, I decided it was best to be more upfront about things. For some reason, pressure-cooking issues and hoping they went away, only made them worse. Imagine that. "We had a good talk, found out some interesting things."

"You did? How is he doing?" George gave up on the binos. "What'd he say?"

"He's doing alright, still a cop, but alright. He confirmed both the MRAP's, and the Bearcats too."

"Bearcats too? Is something going on?"

"There is. George, I'm new to this, and admit it freely, so I'm gonna be real. I'm not like you, Tommy, Shifty, or my Dad. But…"

"But what?"

"But even I can tell a crackdown is coming. And is coming _soon_ , like, _too soon._ I mean a full-on, Warsaw Ghetto Uprising crackdown." George stopped looking out his window and looked me full in the face. If I didn't know better, I'd have thought he was gonna cry. I had a feeling he believed me, but just didn't _want_ to. The ramifications were so terrible, he probably hoped I, despite his best intentions for me, was wrong and spouting utter, unsubstantiated bullshit. He knew I was telling the truth though, this was way too serious to just be making shit up.

"How soon, is too soon?" He asked after a long pause. "And who will be involved?" And by 'who' he meant 'Will it be Medical Mechanica Marines, or will we be forced to fight our fellow Humans?'

"We have at most two weeks. More likely we only have one week."

"That is too short. Half the men don't have armor, we don't have enough ammo, most of them aren't trained as much as they should be…okay, okay…" Before he could get off on a self-induced ramble, he took several breaths. "And who?"

"Medical Mechanica is conducting a purity test." I answered, feeling both of us die a little. I just wanna make this clear 'fore we continue on. No, I don't like cops. Lots of us don't. But do I wake up each morning and hope it's the day we gun-up and start hunting everything with a badge? No. Never have, and never will. It is one thing to wish someone would just bugger off and let you live your life in peace, but quite another when you actually have to take up arms to defend yourself, because they've betrayed their own species for power-lust and a place at the feet of their new overlords. We, and I, had signed on to kill Medical Mechanica, The Red Star, The Vinculum, as they call themselves. Not Humans.

"They have to weed out the posers and band wagon riders somehow." George sighed. "This'll be the most efficient way; setting them against their own people. Nothing we can do but adjust accordingly. You're being strangely calm about this though."

"I'm just repressing my fear for now, so I can dissolve into a quivering jelly of terror later. I'll do the dissolving while in the shower; it'll save time and cleanup." How I wish I was kidding…

"Oh, okay. Just don't get sucked down the drain when you do your dissolving."

"Imagine explaining _that_ to the plumber. Well, yah see, my nephew turned to jellyfish in the shower, and is stuck somewhere between the drain and septic tank…"

"All because we made him talk to a girl." George saw an opening. "He couldn't get past hello."

"Hey, I can talk to plenty of girls whenever I want."

"That, what's-its-fuck, Ohm-Eagle-Spiegel, or whatever…"

"Omegle…"

"Or _whatever_ , doesn't count."

"I don't use Omegle, first of all. And second, if I did, would that at least count as practice?"

"NO."

"Tommy said the same thing."

"Of course he did." George had himself a good chortle, then the binos were back up. "I think that's him." And indeed it was. The C-123 Country had flown last time was unmistakable with its grinning Shark's Mouth. The plane lined up with the runway like he meant to land. We had started filling in the crater over the weekend, so much for punishing Haruko. I think I'll let Naota how to punish Haruko. Hee-hee...think about it...I'm awful, I know.

"His gear isn't coming down…" George now frowned as Country approached.

"Let me see." I looked through the binos, and the C-123's landing gear was still retracted. But something was different about the back end. "Ohhh…I see what he's doing. He's got the ramp down, see?" Country flew that plane ten feet off the ground, his cargo ramp just above the dirt. As he passed, a pair of parachutes deployed from the cargo hold and dragged out series of strapped down and cushioned pallets of crates; all skidding across the shale in a flurry of prop washed up dust. His drop complete, Country raised his ramp, circled back to waggle his wings in salute, and disappeared to the south from whence he'd came. Further inspection revealed some of the crates contents, boldly stamped in military font. Atop the first pallet of ammunition SPAM-cans was duct-taped an envelope. I ripped it open and George and I both read in amused disbelief.

 _Cousins George, Thomas, and Jeff,_

 _Mr. Griggs has informed me of your supply issues and difficulty in acquiring sufficient arms and ammunition. The $25,000 USD you wired him for safekeeping and for Overwatch related funding, has been spent. Before you are the products purchased, as per approval from Mr. Griggs:_

 _-10 AK-47 rifles of the Izhmash Concern; and accessories_

 _-50,000 rounds of 7.62 X 39mm; of Wolf Ammunition_

 _-3,500 rounds of 0.50 BMG; of Federal Ammunition_

 _-The remainder of funds were spent on 100 Grade Aviation 'Green' gasoline_

 _Additionally, the following items were acquired, in the unlikely event their deployment be deemed necessary:_

 _-7 M2HB Heavy Machine Guns of Browning North America; and accessories and tripods._

 _Please ensure these items are deployed properly and effectively. I apologize for the sudden nature of this delivery, but am aware Time is a resource we are in ever shorter supply. I also apologize for using a LAPES drop, but there is a little girl's birthday party I must attend; and my darling wife will turn me into stew meat if I miss it. I hope next time I will be able to stop by._

 _Meanwhile, in The Spirit of The Chaotic Good, I am yours in Armed Liberty:_

 _-Country_

 _P.S. Don't ask me stupid questions about where I find things, and I won't have to tell you stupid lies._

 _P.S.S. Don't shoot your eye out!_

. . .

The first raid wasn't scheduled until ten o'clock at night, so Cole had some time to putter around the office. To kill the boredom, he started archiving old emails. While sorting, a new message popped up. It was from one of the Armorers. He was just as bored sitting in the station's arms locker; The Cage as it was known.

*Hey Kauffman. Heard some rumblings about a raid tonight?*

*From where, and from who? That's supposed to be classified. Need to know basis.*

*Intuition. No one signs out 10 UMP-45's, 5 M16's, 3 Rem. 870's, and 2 M24's, plus all the wrappings, without cause. That's a lot of firepower. What's up?*

*…* Cole hesitated to say, but the urge to gloat pulled relentlessly. *There are TWO raids.*

*Dets?*

*Weapons and explosives search, confiscation and seizure.*

*Fun-fun. What kind of weapons? The ratatatata kind?*

*Exactly.*

*Anyone I've heard of?*

*You could look them up. We also have tips from anons and plainclothes from gun shows. Might be full auto sears and parts, suppressors and parts. Manufacturing of full autos and conversions. Same with explosives. May be bomb/grenade/IED makers.*

*That would be a great find.*

*Preemptive too.*

*Don't need the civilians gunning up and thinking they're Rambo.*

*The more work we do now, the easier it will be later.*

*True. Hey. With anons, how did we get warrants signed?*

*That's hysterical! ?*

*Judge Ryan? Don't see it. Straight-laced guy. Major PITA*

*MIB having a talk. Judge Ryan has skeletons in closet. Will be given blank warrants to sign. We just fill in blanks.*

*The MIB? Done deal then.*

*He is very good. Can't wait for raid. Bound to be lots of good stuff. Also good for PR optics.*

*Bringing some press hounds along?*

*Hearts and minds, hearts and minds. Nab a few gun-nuts, showcase arsenals/stockpiles, demonize them. Then any resistance talk gets kibosh from get-go.*

*You've given this some thought.*

*They don't pay me just for my good looks. I'd need a raise if they did.*

*Haha, sure, sure. GTG. Duty calls.*

*Same. NOT A WORD of this leaks.*

*Yeah, sure.*

*I mean that.*

*I got it!*

*I'll hold you at your word.* Cole logged off, leaned back and stretched. A glance at his watch told him it was time to check his equipment and sight in his UMP-45. He hoped he'd get a chance to use it.

. . .

Another day done and another day of his talent wasted. Judge Ryan harrumphed and grumbled back to his chambers, annoyed how long this recent case had been running. The jury couldn't make up their minds if you put a gun to their heads. Now the courthouse was coal furnace dark and deserted save himself, and the janitor. Judge Ryan's office was similarly lit and he fumbled with the lock before doffing his robes. His suit and pants were stowed neatly in a bureau next to the door. Then, half dressed, robes in one hand, pants in the other, there was a blinding flash. A harsh, cruel laughing filled the office.

"Good evening, Most _Honorable_ Judge Ryan!" The cackling came from the Judge's desk and he snapped the lights on. Ryan's heart nearly fell out of his chest and he choked down a scream upon seeing The Man in Black occupying his chair; a large camera in his hands. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything?"

" _Why, in THE HELL,_ are you in my office?! I told you I wanted nothing to do with you, or your dammed Red Star!"

"Why aren't you wearing any pants?" The Man countered. Ryan ignored this barb.

"Did you just take a picture of me?"

"I did not take a picture of you." The Man smiled, leaning in the chair with a leisurely lush.

"Then what was…?"

"I have taken several pictures of you, and video too. I do not wish to be accused of photographic manipulation, video is much harder to falsify." The Man pointed to a far corner of the ceiling, and a small hole in the crown molding. "Right up there, in the corner."

"Y-your…you… ** _BASTARD!_** " Ryan spat, unable to summon a better insult on the fly. "What do you want? You already have money, wherever you get it from, and I won't touch it; not one blood stained cent!"

"I am aware you cannot be bought." The Man placed his attache case on the desk. "Quiet admirable, and impressive. Most impressive. You have also resisted even after being shown What All Could Be Yours."

"You mean that hypnotic mind trick."

"Do not patronize me. I happen to admire your resilience, it is so rare these days. It serves you well to stay within my good graces. Now, in light of you not willingly assisting me, I will instead make you."

"So what is this, some form of blackmail?"

"Not some form. It IS blackmail. I'm sure the citizens of Pennsylvania would be just beside themselves finding out that their Pillar of Righteousness, the epitome of what should be morality and integrity, is a voyeuristic pervert that pleasures himself in court…"

"I do not, fondle myself!"

"Prove you don't." The Man's toothy smile only infuriated Ryan more. It was such a smug 'gotcha' grin, it begged to be punched into scattered teeth across the carpet. All Ryan could muster was impotent rage. "I thought so. Here is what I require of you." The Man extracted several papers from his case and laid them out.

"Blank warrants. Why?"

"All I need is your signature? And why? For legitimacy. When all is said and done, the people will want answers. Giving what I must do your seal of approval will placate the people and put them at ease. 'Well…' They will say. 'Well… normally I would complain, resist. But if Judge Ryan says so, it must be alright.' That is why I require your signature. Sign, and I will cease darkening your doorstep."

"Until you need another favor, right?"

"Of course! Are you _sure_ you're really a judge? The practical aspects of blackmail seem utterly foreign to you." The Man appeared genuinely concerned.

"I've convicted liars, cheats, con-men, and thieves more honorable than you." Ryan snarled, having presence of mind to finally get fully dressed. "I think better of them than your cowardly sneaking about."

"And I do not give a Priest's Damnation what you think." The Man sat upright, somehow seeming taller even while sitting. "I explained once already, but you require a remedial lesson. Your best interest lies in pleasing me. This planet _will_ fall, this planet _will_ come into the fold of The Solar Federation, and the banner of The Red Star _will_ grace all the planet's highest and most prominent places as surely as your sun rises and sets; and you _know_ this to be true from what I have revealed to you. Your only choice in the matter is how you will fit into this new paradigm; if at all. The Temple does not suffer grifters, or deviants. I have already dispatched two such deviants under my employ that displeased me, and am perfectly happy to eradicate a third if I deem fit; and will find a more amendable replacement before I even need to ask for volunteers. So. Judge." The Man held out one of Ryan's pens. "Let us dispense with the pearl clutching and sophistry. Sign and secure yourself good standing. Or don't, and be swept into The Red Star's dustbin."

Judge Ryan had resisted The Man in Black's overtures thus far. While his habit was inexcusable and grounds for immediate disbarring from the board, he was otherwise uncorrupted. Or at least he had convinced himself so well he truly believed his own lies. This thought had begun spinning in his head since The Man stared talking. This was The Man's desire; planting a seed of doubt in an otherwise pristine mind. All it took to take root was one slip-up on the Judge's part, one act of human stupidity, and he'd shattered his own illusion. He took the pen in a hand trembling from self-hating rage.

"What are these warrants for?"

"Do you really care, or are you merely being polite?"

"It would do well to have my story straight if, or when, I am accosted by a reporter asking questions."

"Don't worry about what to say. What do you think I am here for? I, and The Priests, will take care of everything. The words you'll speak, the praises you'll sing. Don't worry or wonder How or Why." Ryan's shame and anger melted away with The Man's assurances. It was going to be alright. The odds of him being discovered were an inevitability, but The Man was offering him an out, a trade. His authority and vested power, for discretion and leniency. Put in those terms, Ryan reasoned he'd be a fool to keep swimming upstream. Riding with the current was a sight easier, and safer. Without any further questions, he signed.

. . .

"Did your design work?" George asked. He was checking in on me in my room. "Rita said she had heard your tests on the runway."

"Nope. It did not work." I held up a blown open steel tube, peeled back ala banana. "The pressure spike was too high for this small of a volume. It blew the tube open, and then blasted the piston back through into the receiver; the rest of the parts went out the only way they could, through the ejection port."

"Oh my." George understated and I handed him the tube to examine. "How soon will you have it adjusted?"

"By tomorrow morning. I'll have a new design for Naota and Haruko to build. That I'll test tomorrow too, and they'll start production same day; if it works. Which it will. I hope."

"It will." George handed the tube back. I laid it on the drafting table next to my desk. "Don't stay up all night though. We have a morning meeting tomorrow and you cannot be sleep-logged."

"A morning meeting? That's…different."

"It's too late for tonight, but can't wait until tomorrow evening."

"Something come up?"

"Yeah, all that you told me today. Griggs will be there too."

"And there will be much rejoicing."

"Indeed. I'll let you get back to work." We said our goodnights. I turned back to my computer, the CAD drafting program, and CFD software; Computational Fluid Dynamics. Pro-tip: save yourself the trouble and don't get hooked on math. At least meth will kill you quickly. Math takes its sweet time and makes you off yourself. The now silent house made concentrating on overpressure issues difficult, so I brought up my music library and donned my headphones. Who to play…who to play…? Ah, of course! Ted Nugent. Who else?

. . .

 _In the early mornin' hours, there's a din in the air…_

 _Mayhem's on the loose!_

 _Stormtroopers comin' and you'd better be prepared!_

 _Got no time to choose!_

 _Get ready…ready…ready…Stormtroopers comin'…_

 _Get ready…ready…ready…Stormtroopers comin'…*_

 _. . ._

Twenty officers of the State Patrol's Special Weapons and Tactics team had dismounted their MRAP's and stacked up on the front and back doors of their first house. There were nine per door, and the two with M24 sniper rifles were staked out to cover each stack. This did not include the fifty additional officers of backup, waiting just around the corner should something go wrong. A single light was on in the living room, and the flicker of a television screen flashed against closed blinds. Cole was the third man in his stack. It was his call that would set things in motion.

"All exits secured?" He whispered into his radio.

"Everything secured, cover established. Nothing gets out. No signs of activity. You are clear." The lead sniper reported he and the other sniper were set. Cole could execute at his discretion.

"Roger that. Door, you ready?" The two officers at the door nodded and readied their fifty-pound steel tube. "All teams. We are Green. Execute on my mark. Three…two…ONE."

At Cole's wording of the 'N' sound of 'ONE', the door rams smashed their targets clean off their hinges. Twenty adrenaline pumped, blood lusted and psyched up troopers swarmed the small house; each bellowing "State Police! State Police! Hands up, on the floor! State Police! Hands up!" at the top of their lungs. Most of the house was dark, except for the living room where Cole made his way. Instead of seeing the middle-aged, mustachioed man he expected, it was a fourteen year old girl, and a five year old boy; both sitting on the couch and watching cartoons.

"What the hell…?" Immediately he knew something was wrong. "Where's your father?!"

"H-he's, he's out with, with Calvin's mom. They're, they're on a, ah, a uh…" As the girl tried to explain her father, and the mother of the boy she was babysitting, were on a date, the boy began to cry. After all, his evening had taken a sudden turn. One moment had been reruns of Yogi Bear and Scooby-Doo. Now there were several tall, scary men with their faces covered in masks, helmets and goggles, all yelling and pointing big guns at his face; and was absolutely certain that somehow it was all his fault.

"Forget it!" Cole snapped and turned to his squad. "WELL?!"

"No one else here, Sir. I thought the guy we were after _didn't_ have kids?"

"Our intel must've been off." Cole said instead of admitting to his men they were in the wrong house. "Search the place anyway, maybe we'll get lucky." Five minutes and a ransacked, destroyed house later, the officers departed in haste. Cole scribbled a note and pushed it into the girl's hands. He ordered her to give it to her father when he returned. It read: "Completed housing code inspection. Nothing taken. PA State Patrol."

. . .

 _Comin' up the street, jackboots steppin' high!_

 _Got to make a stand!_

 _They're lookin' in your window, and listenin' to your phone…_

 _Keep a gun in your hand!_

 _Get ready…ready…ready…Stormtroopers comin'…_

 _Get ready…ready…ready…Stormtroopers comin'…_

 _. . ._

"Are you _sure_?"

"Yessir."

"Are you _SURE?_ "

"Y-yessir."

"That didn't sound too sure to me. Are you even sure that you're sure? You'd best unfuck yourself Cleggen, and be goddamn sure this's the right house. If you embarrass me in front of everyone again, I swear on my parent's graves I will remove your eyelids with a dull butter knife."

"Yes, yes Sir! I'm sure that I'm sure!" Trooper Cleggen, stationed in the command vehicle, promised Cole; his voice cracking under the stress. The first house had been the right number, but the wrong street. They had hit 913 Cove _Street_ , instead of 913 Cove _Road._ It was the home of a known firearms collector, especially in historic military arms and civilian curios. What the officers were looking for in particular, were a few small pieces of metal that composed an auto sear.

An auto sear is a machined piece of metal only about two sugar cubes in size. It fits with five other parts similar in size, to make a semi-automatic gun, in this case an AR-15, fire fully automatic like its M16/M4 brethren. Registration, manufacture, sale, and use of these small pieces of steel is heavily regulated and tracked; usually through holders of an FFL. This house was not home to one such licensee, Mr. Barnes instead held a Curio and Relics license; which did not allow him to own any firearm under FFL jurisdiction. And, even though he had never owned or even seen an auto sear in his life, his house was getting a visit all the same.

The doors fell in just as the first house, and the State Police's SWAT team valiantly stormed an empty house. Mr. Barnes, their target, had found a hot date at the bar and went home with her, rather than back to his place. They searched the house in the same manner Jeff Carson had searched Clyde's trailer; only more so. They not only upended every cabinet, drawer, and piece of furniture, they also ripped off the sheetrock to search the walls, and tore down the ceiling tiles to access the attic.

As a C&R holder, Mr. Barnes had taken care to find the best safes money could buy. When the SWAT team's sledgehammers had failed to crack them, acetylene torches were brought in. Meanwhile, Cole and three others searched out back. A tool shed and camper were also opened by snipping their locks with bolt cutters. They did not have even a blank warrant ready for these two structures, but that didn't matter at that point. Rakes, shovels, shears, post hole diggers, flower pots, power cords, a weed whacker, and a lawn sprinkler flew out the shed door as an officer searched.

"How're we coming?" Cole was starting to feel uneasy. Toe-tapping superiors and restless reporters were waiting outside, and he had nothing to show; yet. There was also the ever present worry The Man in Black had mixed himself into the crowd to observe unnoticed. "They've got nothing out back 'cept some fertilizer."

"Can't we…ooooff!" The other officer grunted as he and a third pried at the safe door with crowbars. "…Say he was using it to make ANFO? On more pry outta do us. Put your back into it Blair!"

"Not a handful of the stuff for porch tomatoes, no."

"Too bad…got it!" _CRANG!_ The safe's door, after half an hour of valiant resistance, finally gave. The safe was filled with mostly World War I and World War II bolt action rifles, several lever action guns, an M1 Garand, one AR-15, and a Chinese SKS with an orange fiberglass stock. There were even more pistols, mostly oddball and unique calibers from the turn of the last century. Not wanting to take chances or leave empty handed, all twenty seven rifles and thirty five pistols, and all the ammunition as well, were confiscated; and then paraded before the reporter's cameras. They would find, or invent, something to charge Mr. Barnes with later.

. . .

 _Two hundred down, and it's comin' 'round again…_

 _Got no second choice._

 _Where's the Justice, and where's the Law?!_

 _Raise your healthy voice!_

. . .

One-month married Dorothy and Eugene Dryphus were getting ready for bed. She'd used the tiny bathroom first, then instructed him to make his shower quick; or she'd be forced to get started in bed without him.

'Wouldn't that be a tragedy…' Eugene thought of his wife waiting on soft sheets with open arms; and legs. 'Don't wanna keep her too long…' He turned off the water and reached for a towel. With the running water stopped, he could hear another noise. A heavy knocking at the front door.

"Gene, I think someone's at the door!" Dorothy called. "Can you make them go away?"

"Yeah, I hear 'em…" Now there were muffled words along with the knocking. "Of all times."

"…Open up!" _THMP! THMP! THMP!_ "Po…Open…now!"

"What in the Hell?" Eugene didn't see any flashing lights through the windows, and since it was just past midnight, he wrongly assumed it couldn't be the police. Wrapping himself in a towel, he went first to the bedroom.

"Honey, what is it?" Dorothy's eyes were fear-filled as Eugene drew a pistol from his safe and loaded it. "Gene, what's out there?!"

"I don't know, but I'm going to find out. Call 911 and have them send someone out. I'll be right…" _CRANCH!_ The SWAT team's ram smashed into the door. It did not go down like the first two. Eugene had replaced the original with a steel core door, and installed a steel kickplate around the entire doorframe; held in place by three inch long screws. Four more swings and the door buckled in its frame. One more swing was all it needed.

"STOP! I AM ARMED! STOP OR I WILL SHOOT YOU!" Eugene squared against his front door, took a firm, two handed grip on a massive revolver, and declared his intention to defend his home, his wife, and himself. He had no idea what or who was on the other side of his door, but they had heard him.

. . .

"You hear that?!" One ram man said to Cole. "He's armed!"

"Bring up the shields, quickly!" Cole ordered and the lineup changed. Now there were two men with pistols and heavy ballistic shields who would be first through the door. "Okay! Go! Go! Go!" The door finally gave and the shields entered as soon as the door fell. Both parties, the SWAT and Eugene, were equally surprised to see the other. But Eugene fired first.

. . .

As soon as the door came down, Eugene fired at the first target presenting itself. On the black paint of the shield, its Plexiglas view slit stood out in stark contrast. Eugene was a C&R license holder, but possessed no interest in modern firearms; or really anything before 1900. He had selected the youngest revolver of his collection; only because it took metallic cartridges instead of the older loose powder and cast ball, all fired from a percussion cap, making it faster to load. Eugene was facing 2 H&K 45's, five UMP-45's, two M16A2's, and an 870 shotgun, with all their users clad head to toe in body armor, while he in a towel wielded an 1873 Colt Single Action Army revolver chambered in 0.44-40. It wasn't even close to fair.

. . .

The first officer with a shield had not expected a soggy and naked for his towel Eugene, standing boldly in his living room, and so he hesitated despite the angry black hole of the Colt's barrel staring back at him. Before he could get out a 'drop your weapon!' order, Eugene fired. The Colt was chambered in 0.44-40 Winchester, the first metallic centerfire cartridge of its kind Winchester had ever made. With a thundering _BH-WHOOOOOOMMM!_ The living room was first lit with muzzle flash, then darkened with a cloud of black powder smoke. A 250-grain solid lead ball left the Colt's barrel at 1,200 feet per second and shattered itself against the shield's Plexiglas view slit. The bullet, made only of cast lead, lacked any structural integrity to penetrate an object harder than itself, burst into shards that spider-webbed the Plexiglas with cracks. The first shield officer flinched and reflexively closed his eyes at the Colt's flash and earsplitting report, and promptly tripped on the scuff rug just inside the door. The second shield officer stumbled on the first as he fell, and hooked his shield on the fallen man's pistol belt. He too stumbled and the shield dropped to reveal his unarmored face.

Now Eugene had an even better target. He hauled the revolver down from its recoil, thumbing back the hammer at the same time in a flawless, well-practiced motion. As soon as the front sight was leveled and on the sheet-white face of the second officer, Eugene loosed another round. This one struck the officer an inch to the right of the tip of his nose, just below his goggles. The soft lead bullet plowed through his cheekbone, widening into a flower with jagged petals, while shattering the officer's facial plate. It continued along the bottom of the brain's temporal lobe before running out of energy when it hit the combined wall of the back of the skull and Kevlar helmet behind it. The bullet did retain enough of its 1,620 ft-lb of energy to put in the helmet a sizeable crack. Down the officer went, vision in his right eye blackened and independent muscle control on his whole left side gone. He was still alive, but very much out of the fight.

Dorothy, hearing the front door break down, had leapt from the bed. Her cell phone she let fall to the floor, still on the line with the 911 Operator. As for all 911 calls, a recorder was running and caught every bit of audio. Though naked as the day she'd been born, her husband was in danger and she was going to do her best to help. While Dorothy had not grown up around guns, Eugene had been teaching her. She took the only non-pistol arm in the entire house from the safe: an 1888 Parker Brothers Hammerless 20-gauge. Eugene had only used it a few times to shoot trap and skeet at the range, so Dorothy loaded both barrels with 7 ½ shot; pellets only 0.095 of an inch in size. Perfect for clay pigeons, not armor.

Stepping over the first two, the third officer in line was followed by Cole and the rest of the stack. Eugene was cocking the Colt's hammer for a third round. The room was cloaked with black powder smoke, but Eugene's white towel was easily spotted. Cole and the third officer put the bright red dots of their sights on Eugene's navel and pulled the triggers. Both guns were suppressed and chattered with a clacking report, each putting out a ten round burst. Even fifteen feet could not account for full auto recoil, stress, nerves, adrenaline, and poor marksmanship. Only five of the 0.45 caliber rounds found their mark. Two hit Eugene's left lung, one his liver, one his stomach, and the last his upper right chest just below the clavicle. Gasping for air as his lungs collapsed, Eugene fired a last shot before falling; it blew a charred black hole in the ceiling.

The team flowed into the living room just as Dorothy entered from the hall to their right: naked and armed. If the officers had been stunned by a toweled Eugene, they were sidelined by a nude young female wielding a shotgun. The first barrel's shot went wide, making a shattered mess of the television. Their second major shock overcome, the officers returned fire as Dorothy gave them the other barrel. The fifth officer caught a dozen lead pellets in his arm, six in his shoulder, all stopped by armor, but not the five to his face. Penetrating no more than skin deep and unable to get past bone, the wounds were enough to throw off his aim; stitching a pattern of holes from floor, to wall, and across the ceiling. Instead of a tight group of fifteen bullets on her solar plexus, Dorothy only received three. One was to the fleshy part of her left thigh, one grazed her hip bone and knocked her legs from under her, and one left a graze alongside her head. Downed, she dissolved into terrified hysterics, hyperventilating as she was sure these strange men were going to brutally murder her as they just had her Eugene. Instead she was rolled onto her stomach, a pair of flexicuffs secured her wrists, and a knee was placed on the middle of her spine to pin her in place.

"Clear."

"Clear."

"…Clear." The rest of the officers announced after a sweep. Eugene's safe was already open so it required no torch. Cans of black powder, percussion caps, cast lead balls, and his other reloading supplies were taken, but it wasn't quite what they were looking for. Cole needed a certain 'Je ne sais quoi' to tie everything together. On Eugene's desk, they found it.

"Cole, got something here." An officer marched over, holding three desktop novelty items. Eugene had put them together to have something to give out at a work party. Each consisted of a small wooden placard, a deactivated MK II pineapple grenade mounted on a wooden dowel, a red tag with a #1 on it clipped onto the grenade's pin, and a metallic strip with words stamped in it: "Complaint Department: Please take a number". "Think these'll work?"

Cole took the novelties, pulled the grenades off, handed the wooded placards to another officer and instructed him to make the placards disappear, and pocketed the #1 red tags. Now all he held were three MK II grenades, deactivated by drilling a hole through their base and emptying out the explosive.

"Good work. These will work _perfectly._ Who'd have thought Eugene here…" Cole nudged the corpse with his boot. "Was a budding bomb-maker? It's a shame, really is. Okay people! We got what we came for! Let's get outta here and let the lab rats take over! C'mon, let's move, move, move!"

. . .

 _Get ready, ready, ready…Stormtroopers comin'!_

 _We'll be ready, ready, ready…Stormtroopers comin'!_

 _Getting' ready, ready, ready…Stormtroopers comin'!_

 _Get ready, ready, ready…Stormtroopers comin'! Get ready…*_

. . .

" _THEY DID WHAT, TO WHO?!"_ Naota had yet to see Rig this upset, to understate the Pennsylvanian's venting rage at the shop's television. The seven o'clock news was on. He and Haruko had come in an hour early to start production of the drinking fountain parts, so they got to watch the news. A total of ten raids had been carried out the night before. Two by the Philipsburg P.D., two by Osceola Mills P.D., three by the Sheriff's office, and two by the State Police. It would have been eleven if the State's wrong address screw-up was counted, but it wasn't, so the ten count stood. All but two had gone well. One executed by the Philipsburg P.D. had resulted in the deaths of the family's three dogs. The officer that had shot the dogs also stormed the house, and there his animal charmer luck ran out. His face was raked with furrows and his left eye clawed blind by the family's cat; who then scampered uncontested out the open back door and into hiding. The other raid highlighted had been much bloodier and was driving Rig to volatile anger.

"…Eugene Dryphus, 28, of Philipsburg was accused of manufacturing grenades by modifying inert ones purchased at a gun show. His wife, Dorothy Dryphus, 27, is being charged with resisting arrest, assault with a deadly weapon, and attempted murder, as well as accomplice charges to the grenade manufacturing. She is hospitalized with wounds sustained during a shoot-out with police and will be arraigned upon her release from the hospital. Two officers were wounded during the firefight…"

"Oh it's a _firefight_ now?! Fuckin' bubbleheaded bimbo…" Rig violently swore. "Twenty soldiers of F-Troop against a revolver and a side-by-side…"

"Shut up, I can't hear!" Naota ordered and Rig lowered his ravings to an unintelligible growling.

"…with light shotgun wounds and is expected to fully recover. The other, Officer Roosevelt, sustained a head wound and is in a coma at Geisinger Hospital. His condition is stable, but doctors do not expect him to recover. Stay tuned for more updates on these gripping events, and we'll be right back after these messages."

"What a mess…" Mike sighed. He, Johnny, Josh, and Canti were watching as well. "And to think the cops could have just knocked."

"Just knocked?" Naota turned on his seat. "Just, like that? Knocked?"

"Uh-huh. Dryphus' were the nicest people you'd meet. Never so much as a speeding ticket from either of 'em." Mike elaborated. "If the cops had sent two regular officers, no ninja suits…" He used the backhanded term for the SWAT team's armor, masks, and helmets. "And instead of midnight, went at say, six in the evening, and said 'Hey, we'd like to have a talk, can we come in?' I bet a month's pay Gene and Dorothy would've invited them in for coffee and doughnuts."

"But _instead_ they kicked the door in at zero dark thirty and went in guns blazing; all goddamn Robocop…" Rig's temper was flaring again. "Out of all people to raid, why them?!"

"They just said on the TV Eugene was making grenades." Naota pointed out.

"Fuck Naota, Eugene was the Boy Scout Troopmaster!" Rig was beside himself. "You're gonna believe the _news?_ All they do is puke back up whatever shit the cops and politicians tell them. These are people who piss on our backs and tell us it's raining. You're a smart guy Naota, think, just think for a few minutes! Does it make any sense at all for a Boy Scout Troopmaster whose two main passions are old cowboy guns and banging his wife, would suddenly become a master terrorist and start making grenades with percussion caps and black powder? Does that make _any_ sense at all?"

"Rig, how about we hear the _rest_ of the story, before you blow a gasket, hmmm?" Johnny lit another cigarette as the newscaster came back on. "Now hush up, or I'm kicking you out."

"Photographs and more details of the Dryphus Bomb Manufacturing have just been released to us." Rig was turning five alarm red in his effort to contain himself. "Police found gunpowder, de-milled grenades, and percussion caps, as well as a cache of weapons." The camera panned to a table with 20 black powder revolvers, nineteen of them the old cap 'n' ball, three MK II grenades with the drilled holes, a half-empty box of 20-gauge shells, Eugene's reloading supplies and press, and an open double-barreled shotgun. "It is unknown at this time if the Dryphus couple were part of a larger network, or acting independently. Captain Chojnacki of the State Patrol, and Sheriff Sarabyn, both independently concluded more investigations are ongoing and more raids are scheduled to quote 'root out the homegrown radicals'. We will continue to monitor these stories, as that is all the information we have been given at this time. Our thoughts and prayers are with Officer Roosevelt, and we at the studio wish him a speedy recovery…"

 _Click._ The TV switched off.

"Man, fuck Officer Safety Roosevelt." Now Josh chimed in.

"You don't really mean that, do you?" Naota turned in surprise to Josh. He, Johnny, Mike, and especially Rig, all had swapped their usual faces. These new ones were hard, grim, and devoid of sympathy. Friendly fabricators, replaced by…wrathful warriors?

"I say what I mean, and I mean what I said." Josh took a drag. "And I'll say it again 'till I'm blue in the face: Fuck Officer Safety Roosevelt, the crooked nag he rode in on, and the rest of the Jackboot Union."

"What, what is with you guys?! Okay, sure. The cops may have been a little heavy-handed…"

"Naota, I was in the Boy Scouts with Eugene." Josh explained. "You couldn't build a kinder, more honest guy. We went hunting once, for rabbits. He wounded one, and wounded rabbit screams are pure nightmare fuel. He never went hunting again, couldn't do it. But he still liked shooting, especially black powder stuff. And now, his hobby has killed him."

"The point being missed here…" Johnny asserted his seniority. "Is that _none_ , absolutely _none_ of the people raided last night, actually did _anything_ wrong."

"Then why did the police raid them? There must've been some reason?"

"Doesn't matter." Johnny's waved cigarette traced grey tendrils of smoke. "These days they raid you first and figure out an acceptable reason later. Usually a dead suspect makes that easier, as dead men tell no tales. Which is why I'm surprised Dorothy is still breathing. Anyway. We, arguing and bitching about the cop's methods and how many merit badges Eugene had, is missing the point. What did all of the people raided have in common? Hmm? Let's start with that."

"…Dryphus, Barnes, Kane, Lee…" Rig was going over the list of people raided. Then, Naota would have sworn he heard the cylinder of Rig's brain rotate and bring a round to battery. "They all held firearms licenses!"

"Now it all looks a little clearer, doesn't it?" Johnny guided the conversation along. "All of those raided were either well-known gun collectors, as in more than ten guns according to the police, or held some kind of firearm's license. Eugene had a Curio and Relics, which means he could order anything non-automatic or under FFL jurisdiction, and was built at least fifty years ago, and have it sent straight to his front door. Barnes had a C&R, and a Destructive Device; for cannons, grenades and such. He had just got it two weeks ago and hasn't had the chance to even use it yet. There were also two more C&R's, a second DD, three licensed as manufacturers of guns, and two dealers; each the owner of the gun store in Philipsburg, and the other of the gun store in Osceola Mills. Are we starting to see a pattern?"

"They were all people who could find, build, buy, or sell, probably a large amount, of guns; and in a short time too." Tumblers fell into place as Johnny's point became clear. "Are they, are they trying to take people's guns away?"

"It looks that way, and they are starting by cutting off supply."

"But isn't that against the, what's it…" He brought back Rig's many civics lessons. "That's against the Second Amendment; the Constitution!"

"Bah." Rig spat a chunk of tobacco. "They don't let that dusty old parchment slow 'em down. Hey Mike. I'll add my month's pay to your bet, and raise."

"Raise to what?" Rig let silence hang before slowly answering.

"I bet a month's pay that we are next."

Naota about fell out of his chair. G&R Fabrication and Cranes… _raided?!_ Rig surely had snorted his morning tobacco rather than chewed it, his brain wasn't working right. What did they have that…well, now hang on a minute. Naota conceded Rig may have a point. Having seen a picture of an auto sear, Naota figured he could easily build at least fifty of them a day with the shop's tools on hand. Building whole guns, well, what do you want? Any kind, and any color you want, as long as it's black. He had taken apart, cleaned, fired, and handled Rig's guns enough to know cruder, but still effective, versions were easily built. As far as ammunition, Rig reloaded by hand much of his own ammunition as it was both cheaper and he could maximize each round's performance. There was at least ten pounds of smokeless powder stored in a sealed cabinet by Rig's reloading bench, along with the bullets, casings, and primers. And that was just what Naota knew of, he had no idea how many rounds Rig had stored, ready and on hand. Any manner of gas, fertilizer, or chemical bomb was waiting in any of the jugs, buckets, barrels, or tanks cluttering up the shop. Thinking in those terms, Naota realized G &R Fabrication was an armory and weapons factory in waiting.

"I hate to admit it Rig…but I think you're right."

. . .

Haruko didn't trust herself to speak as she watched the news footage of black-clad officers raiding the houses. She watched in tongue biting, furious silence. All the while, her stomach churned with a sickening sense of Déjà vu.

. . .

"And that'll do for those." The Armorer finished one list of inventory logging for the confiscated arms. He reviewed the list before starting on a fresh page:

· 3 – Model 71 Mausers

· 6 – Model M Stutzen Mausers

· 4 – Model 1889 Mausers

· 27 – Gewehr 98 Mausers

· 18 – Karabiner 98K Mausers

· 1 – Gewehr 41 Mauser

· 10 – Spanish M93 Mausers

· 9 – Serbian M1899 Mausers

· 13 – 1903 Ottoman Mausers

· 12 – M1894 Swedish Mausers

· 52 – Other various Mauser variants designed for export to Yugoslavia, Czechoslovakia, Mexico, Chile, Colombia, Portugal, Brazil, Argentina, China, and Cuba.

"That's it then?" Cole was starting to feel his lack of sleep.

"Oh no, far from it." The Armorer started a new inventory sheet.

"Come again?"

"We ain't done yet. Those are just the Mausers." The Armorer nodded at the stack of evidence crates. "There's Mosin Nagants, Winchesters, Remingtons, Enfields, Springfields, Carcano, Arisaka, Norinco, Mossberg, DPMS, Colt, Smith and Wesson, Ruger, Browning, Ithaca, Weatherby, Windham, Benelli, Kel-Tec, Savage…" Cole tried to stem the Armorer's ramblings to no avail. "And that's just the rifles and shotguns I _know of_ , offhand. There's a few I missed. And, that's not even starting on the pistols, or what in the hell we're going to do with _THAT._ " He nodded at the 3-Inch Ordnance Rifle, a Civil War cannon, mounted on a period accurate wheeled carriage.

"Who dragged the museum piece in?"

"Sheriff's deputies. They were so proud, like a kid with his first deer. Couldn't imagine anyone wheeling that boat anchor into battle, but you never know."

"Better safe than sorry."

"Yep. So, how is the media handling this? It's gotta be a tough sell; especially with Officer Roosevelt now Officer Rutabaga."

"No, we're actually using that to our advantage." Cole had not slept after the raids ended and his body armor came off. He had been with Chojnakci, Sarabyn, Warburg and Strong, and The Man in Black, to make sure the TV news and the papers got their stories straight. "We're going to play up the sympathy, really tug at those heartstrings. A few cameras are going to get some good footage of a sobbing wife and distraught kids, wondering why Daddy won't wake up."

"Shit, that's brutal. Although, I can see that working. Like this: 'Y'know folks, if these gun-nut whackos hadn't resisted arrest and done as told, Officer Roosevelt would be home with his kids, instead of on life support with a bullet in his brain. So, if the police order you to do something, think of the Roosevelt Children.' Something kinda like that?"

"Not something kinda like it. Something exactly like it. And we've added on the usual 'arsenals, stockpiles, caches, armory' terms, the 'nobody needs a such-n-such', we've been doing this since 1934."

"Practice makes perfect."

"Indeed. Hey, mind if I help inventory the rest?" The longer Cole stood next to the mountain of guns, the more he wanted to stay. He could sleep when he was dead. Such a trove of martial treasures, all the engineering, testing, manufacturing that went into each rifle, and the work and effort to earn the money to afford and buy it, looked to him like an oasis to a man dying of thirst.

"You…you serious? You don't mind?" Cole only half-listened.

"Not at all…" Already he was relishing this new ill-gotten hoard. The Itch was back, and with a vengeance. Enough weapons to arm a light infantry company, and all of them belonged to him. Well, not him specifically, but the State Police and now The Red Star of The Solar Federation as well. But it wasn't enough. Cole needed more, and he was going to get it.

. . .

* * *

*Stormtroopin' - Ted Nugent

Okay, turn in your grading sheets. What'd you give 'em? Pass, or fail? I would have to say Medical Mechanica would give them at least a B+. You'd have to loose some points for casualties taken, a wrong address, and one of your officers getting taken down by a house cat. Miu Miu would have been proud. But overall the raids accomplished their goals.

But now we've really gotten a good look around inside Cole's cranium, and folks...I h'ain't goin' on that ride again. It's scary in there. There's the Lord Acton quote: Power tends to corrupt, and absolute power corrupts absolutely. Greed takes many forms, but I think Cole's gold-fever, his Itch, is Power. Material gains are a pleasant side bonus. And that is a person you can never pay enough to leave you alone. They want everything you have, and everything you cannot give, they want too.

On a related side-note, I have recently reread the novel 'Unintended Consequences' by John Ross. If you think I am a firearm enthusiast, I am a rank amateur in the shadow of Mr. Ross. Although his book is out of print, there are many free PDF copies to be had around the internet. His book has had, and will continue to have, an influence on this story, and I highly recommend you find yourself a copy to understand why.

I think that is about all for now, unless you have something scratching at your brain I missed. If so, toss that thought into the review box and we'll hash it out! Thank you again for reading, I hope the wait was worth it. See y'all again 'round about Halloween!

One last thing. A quote from Lord Acton again, which I find more relevant to The Red Star, The Temple, and Medical Mechanica, and the authority and power they wield. Some food for your thoughts:

Authority that does not exist for Liberty, is not Authority but Force.


	17. Chapter 17

The month of October approaches, the time of tricks, treats and spooks... while in the dark of night, BigCountry75 emerges from his cave. Clasped in hands knarled and cramped from writing, typing, and editing, he offers up new Fooly-Cooly chapters! In total seriousness though, the adventure continues, although after a slightly longer than anticipated break. I actually had enough material to put out a singular chapter a month ago...but that's not good enough! So I kept at it, thinking I'd get two out like last time...and, uh, well, accidentally went whole-hog and did three. Carried away you might say. I hope this next installment holds up to all before it and was worth the carpal tunnel. Enjoy!

* * *

. . .

Have I ever described the degree to which I thoroughly loathe, despise, and detest, with every fiber of my being, getting up early; the sole exception being hunting season? No? Well…now you know. Sunup on the end of Midstate Airport found me one cranky customer, I had only about three or four hours in me. Contrary to our usual meetings, this one had an uneasiness to it. Everyone who smoke did so fervently, while the rest of us shifted nervously in uptight postures. Even Mr. Griggs appeared off-put.

"Good morning everyone." Mr. Griggs started us off, as he had called for the meeting. "Let's see…Solomon, Voyze, Chartier, Welshman, King, Pike, and, very pleased to see you again, Dahl. And the Carsons. Attendance is perfect." Herr Dahl was back on his feet, finally released from the hospital and out of bed rest. He was still supposed to be home, taking it easy, but after one day he had turned stir-crazy. Some of his skin was still loosely bandaged, the grafts were still growing in and he said they itched like mad. Half his head looked sunburned and scaly with alternating patches of older and newly grown skin, and his hair was starting to grow back too. One thing Craig had failed to damage though, was his good nature.

"And eet ist a pleasure to see all off you as vell!" Dahl carefully gave a half smile, lest he irritate the affected side. "Herr Griggs, I haff been kept up-to-date vith all zee going's on by everyone ven zay visited me in zee hospital. Do not vorry about catching me up."

"Then I'll jump right in." Mr. Griggs didn't mince words. "Gentlemen, the time we have dreaded, is here. Medical Mechanica has a history of testing new converts, and what happened last night was only the first question on the exam. M-M will now want to see how far the City Government and the Police are willing to go, and also their ability to suppress and control a population. And, if what Jeff discovered the other day is true, we have less than a week."

"Excuse me, Mister Griggs." Mr. Chartier had something nagging at him. "If I may, it's slightly off-topic, but _why_ does M-M need to seize our little towns if they have that Iron they're building?"

"That's a fair question." Mr. Griggs allowed the deviation. "We are not one-hundred percent sure, but it's believed Irons are a form of Scalar Weapon. The waves of energy they generate, when mapped on a chart, resembles a doughnut, or better, a hurricane. At the hollow center, the Eye, sits the Iron. They can adjust the range or yield of the Iron, and the size of the 'Dead Zone' grows or shrinks proportionally. The Dead Zone, or Zone of No Effect, is partly from the Iron's characteristics, but also so whomever is in the immediate vicinity, like the engineers running and soldiers guarding it, don't get their brains fried by their own weapon. So with that in mind, Philipsburg and Osceola Mills, are certainly within the Iron's Dead Zone, and thus, a liability. You're wondering why they didn't put the Iron in say, Montana? That's because Iron's have a limited range based on their power supply, and the waves generated can only travel so fast. They'll want to knock out most of our Eastern Seaboard, which is D.C. and most of the population, but putting the Iron's build site down the street from the Pentagon would be too obvious. This area must have been determined as a 'sweet spot' for them to max their range, with the smallest Dead Zone, while as close to their target as they dare, and with the smallest chance of discovery. Did that come out too fast, am I speaking in tongues? You all look confused."

"No, not at all." Mr. Chartier blinked heavily as he took in the short lecture. "Quite the opposite. I'm just struck how sensible it all sounds. No offense meant to you, of course, but this all still seems so surreal. How do you manage?"

"It's a living." Mr. Griggs shrugged and moved right along. "Where was I…? Right. Now, I am not combat arms, or a weapons officer, my specialty is logistics. I am here today for your families."

"We surmised as much." Mr. Solomon surprised Tommy, George, Mr. Griggs, and me. "We have been helping each other's families vacate the area for the past week."

"And you didn't tell us?" George asked, flabbergasted. "We could have helped out…how did we not pick up on this?" He asked, with a quick glance my way. Whaddyah want from me? I'd been out tagging radio towers and tracking MRAP shipments; not doing door to door wellness checks. I am just one man!

"It was something we felt had to be done ourselves." Mr. King explained. "Everyone had to break it to his family in their own way, tell them to take the kids on one last vacation before Labor Day, or visit Grandma and Pops in Florida for a few weeks." I couldn't think of anything to say. If there had been any doubt to their commitment, it was gone.

"I would like to thank you, and tell everyone this from all of us…" Tommy was similarly struck. "That your men have probably done the hardest thing we could have asked, and there isn't enough thanks in the Galaxy to repay them."

"We certainly will Thomas." Mr. Solomon replied.

"This's all wonderful and everything, but let's get serious eh?" Mr. Welshman wasn't feeling sentimental. "What were you sayin' Griggs?"

"That if there are still families without anywhere to go and wish to leave, Overwatch has secured loan of several transport aircraft to ferry them to Fort Bragg and our section of the facility; at no cost. We won't ask anyone fighting with us to needlessly put their loved ones in harm's way if other options are available. Anyone that has workers interested, please talk details with me afterwards. Meanwhile, we have another pressing issue. Carsons, if you would…?"

"With pleasure Mister Griggs, with pleasure…" I had one of my many maps of Clearfield and Centre Counties. This one heavily marked up and edited. The hood of Tommy's truck made a good table so everyone could get a good look. "Gentlemen, look upon this map well. You will be getting your own personal copies. Learn them, know them, memorize them, live them. This is to be our battlefield. This is where our towns, our lives, and our planet, will be won or lost."

. . .

While Canti was an infinite well of patience, The Something residing within him, was not. It had no intention of repeating the weeklong vigil performed while cracking the Scorpion's code. To Canti's mild annoyance, rather than helping him directly, The Something was casting about ideas, any ideas, for speeding up the process of breaking the State Patrol's barriers.

'I mean you no ill will…' Canti said as another round of calculations aimed at the encryption's private key failed. 'But your excessive noise is distracting. You mean well, but are not contributing by siphoning off my attention with these ideas.'

'I see. Very well. If that's how my assistance is appreciated, I will keep it to myself.'

'That is most helpful, indeed.' Canti now worked in concentrated silence; at least in his own head. Naota was running a lathe, Haruko a drill press, and the sizzling crackles of Josh, Johnny and Mike's welding added to the din. Canti merely switched off his ears; he didn't need them in cyberspace after all. He wouldn't need to hear while looking for a recurring pattern, an error, a misplaced value, or something out of order to focus on and attack. But so far, nothing. Canti knew that any encryption could be broken with enough computing power and time; especially time. He also knew, at the rate he was going, Earth's Sun would have gone supernova by then. It was time to bend some pride.

'Excuse me.'

'…'

'Excuse me. I know you can hear me.'

'Did you say something?'

'Do you have any suggestions; any new ones?'

'Oh? Having trouble are we?' The longer Canti interacted with The Something, the more fleshed out its personality became.

'…Yes.'

'And you need my help?'

'No. I do not _need_ your help. I _want_ your help.'

'If that makes you feel better. What?'

'I still cannot break the encryption. I will eventually, but will have rusted solid by then.'

'I see…' The Something thought for a moment. 'I have been reviewing some of the books you downloaded, and a phrase sounds fitting: A chain is only as strong as its weakest link.'

'That is what I have been looking for, but have…'

'I was not finished. What is the chain of elements in a computing system, such as email?'

'The front user, interface, the machine, router, transmission server, a transmission of the information, then reversing back to an end user.'

'And which part is the most easily manipulated, and can cause the most damage, of those parts?'

'The Users.'

'Precisely. The User is the least guarded and most vulnerable target of the chain; and thus, the weakest.'

'We do have Cole Kauffman's workstation IP from his conversations with Clyde, and unlimited access to Craig's email through his phone…but the security on Cole's end has blocked Ice Pick a dozen times.'

'Then devise a way to convince Cole, the vulnerable User, to invite us, Ice Pick, in.' Canti stopped probing the State Police firewalls. A computer, he knew intimately, is only as smart as its builder, and as dumb as its user. Though he had never met him, Canti had no doubt Cole was intelligent and clever, but also Human. This meant he could be fooled.

. . .

 _Pang-ah-lang-ah-tang-bang!_... ... "Goddammit."

"Another one?" Haruko had dropped her fourth part of the morning. "You doin' okay there, Butterfingers?"

"Hurdy-hurdy-hur…" She scrunched up her nose at Naota and stooped to pick up the dropped part. "Guess we can't use this one eh?"

"Let me see." Naota took out his micrometer and sized up the part's dimensions. "Nope. No longer in tolerance, it's scrap now. Pitch it." He turned to the shears, then added: "And try to be a little more careful. Every dropped part is money."

"Yeah, yeah. Got it, Peter-Penny-Pincher." Haruko waited for Naota to engage the shears, an eight foot tall and twelve foot long roaring machine that clipped inch thick steel like wrapping paper. As the shears moaned and groaned, she deftly opened her lunch pail on the workbench and dropped the out of spec part inside.

. . .

"Lemme get this straight…" Mr. King scratched his morning five o'clock. Everyone was giving the map their best 'deep in thought' look. George, Tommy and I had just laid down our general strategy for defense of the area, dealing with the police, and eventually clearing the Medical Mechanica garrison. Now the floor was open to suggestions, comments, questions, and concerns. To say there were surprised faces is to woefully understate.

"Yes, Mister King?" Tommy was eager to entertain.

"So…we're _not_ gonna hold the towns?"

"Nope."

"I…well, that's…a…uh…huh." The scratching continued. "Why…why _exactly_ is that again? I'm not a military guy, so forgive my ignorance. But I thought the point of this, us and all, was to keep the cops and M-M _out_?"

"I think I know what the Carson's are on about." Mr. Voyze leaned over the map. "If I may take a stab?"

"I insist." George encouraged. "And Pike, if you have anything to add, jump in whenever."

"In one word gentlemen: topography." Mr. Voyze explained, sweeping his hand over the map. "All've you recognize this as a topo map; we all live, eat, and die, by these. See here..." He pointed with an arthritic finger. "Philipsburg and Osceola Mills are both in bowls, and at the very bottom to boot. Black Moshannon Forest to the north and east is the highest, except for the river splitting it of course, and the highest point being right where we stand. There is _exactly one_ hill between Philipsburg and Osceola, which just _happens_ to be Carson Family Central; surely a coincidence."

"You're imagining things Mister Voyze."

"See, Jeff knows. Anyway, the last thing we want is to be backed into a literal corner and get stuck at the bottom of these valleys."

"Like the 1st Air Cav at Ia Drang." Mr. Pike added. "They landed at the bottom of a mountain in the river valley, and spent the next three days clawing their way back out. If we can draw the cops and M-M down into the valleys, we practically surround them already." He tapped each hash-covered section marking a mine or gas territory, seven sections encircling the area. "And once they're pinned, we can restrict their movements, and even cut them off from Roman's. All supplies and reinforcements would have to come through Black Moshannon Forest, or many miles out of the way around…" As Mr. Pike and Voyze went on, it became apparent both had war gamed several such scenarios in his head. Once a Marine, once Marine Recon, always a Marine.

"That was our intent Mister Pike. I'm glad you see it the same way." Tommy offered Mr. Pike and Mr. Voyze both pencils. "I think you'll make better use of these than I…" And they were off. Ninety minutes later, two bowls of Mr. Welshman's pipe, three chews of snuff from Tommy and I, and several crushed cigarettes in a cut up Fanta can, the map was finalized, and strategies hammered out. We had our Plan A, Plan B, C, D, E, F…X, Y, and Freakin' Z; because everyone has a plan 'till they get punched in the face.

"Alright, I'll make copies of these tonight and deliver them by hand tomorrow." I folded the map up and tucked them away. "So expect me at your offices bright and early. Oh, and it goes without saying, but if you're caught: **_burn these._** "

"We get it Jeff."

"Everyone clear, any last questions?" George wanted no lingering doubts or confusion going forward. "Mister Solomon. You seem troubled?"

"Oh, well…it's…" For once Mr. Solomon seemed caught flat footed. "Running a family dynasty is one thing. But never in my years had I seen myself where I am right now, doing what I am. Planning and plotting to fight off the menace of the Galaxy, and even commanding my steadfast workers as a general in battle…I never could have imagined such a thing. It's such a strange turn my, all of ours really, life has taken. Perhaps the shock of recent events have shaken my core, but I wonder if we can really accomplish what we just discussed. Is our fight winnable? Will our men, and more so, will we stand if it comes to shooting?"

"Pike and I both asked ourselves that, me when I first got off the plane in Vietnam, him his first feel of Iraqi sand." Mr. Voyze offered his answer. "It will be an internal battle fought three thousand odd times if it comes to that. Every one of us will find out in the moment, not before, if we'll stand…and if we're still able to." He admitted.

"As far as winnable goes, there are many variables." Mr. Pike reminded. "We have covered as many as we can conceive, the rest is to the Gods. But we have a homefield advantage with guys who grew up here, numbers, many of our guys are vets and have been under fire before, a solid cause to fight for, and to the best of my knowledge, we're the only ones with any form of air support. I am fully confident in our odds.' Mr. Pike resolutely stamped his seal of approval. That seemed to ease some nerves. Only Monsieur Chartier appeared still unconvinced. He started and stopped, unsure how to say what he wanted.

"What is it?" I asked as he fidgeted.

"It's jut, well…we're not soldiers; or at least most of us. I mean no disrespect to anyone, but we're miners, drillers, and those of us who did serve are years removed from the battlefield…and we're to go against police with their body armor, armored trucks, grenade launchers and gas, machine guns, and what is supposed to be _the best_ Marine force in the Galaxy? Forgive me George, Thomas, Jeff…but how? _HOW?_ " It wasn't anything personal, a 'gotcha' or he'd found the flaw in our logic. Mr. Chartier was simply as scared as the rest of us and wanted some assurances he stood a fighting chance of surviving. I can't blame him, not now, or then, or ever. Not hearing George or Tommy jump on it, I fielded the question.

"Monsieur Chartier, look around you. What do you see?"

"I…see…uh, hills, forests, mountains…?"

"Exactly."

"You are not helping me."

"In the big cities, Pittsburgh to our west and Philly to our east, live the gangs of those concrete jungles. The Crips, the Bloods, Latin Kings, MS-13, Mafias of every nation, even the Communist stumble-fucks in Antifa. And what do all these hard-asses, these self-called bad mofo's have in common? What is the one place they fear more than each other's turf?" I pointed down and ground shale shards underfoot. "Right here. You should hear those city kids talk, the ones I run into at the gas stations and dollar stores as they pass through. They're scared of this land, our pockets of wilderness, the 'ballahs', and the G's, even most skinheads and punks, are scared, _terrified_ , of these hills, these mountains."

"Why?"

"Not without good reason. One specifically relevant reason comes to mind. A mountainous people with a rifle culture cannot be defeated by conventional forces. Period. Full stop. It's as simple as that, and history proves I ain't bullshitting. Most mountainous terrain held by people who are savvy riflemen, as any hunting season here can attest, cannot be militarily defeated, whether they be Chechens, Swiss, or Afghans. You are still considered a newcomer here, and have not grasped the depth of the independent streak, nor the 'because fuck you, that's why' attitude to invaders that Appalachia has been steeped in for centuries. That's one of the reasons these mountains weren't properly conquered, fully tamed, and 'made civilized', until the 1930's; and it took an invasion of Revenue Men, the F.B.I, Strikebreakers, Pinkertons, a Great Depression, and President Frank the Cripple, to pull it off. No, we don't have the best equipment, the best training, or a blank checkbook like the cops do. But by rifle, by shovel and pickax, by K-Bar and tomahawk, I gare-un-god-damn-tee you, we Pennsylvanians will fight; and the only way they're gonna beat us is to grind every mountain you see to dust, all while praying they don't bleed themselves dry in the process.

. . .

Cole had finished writing up his reports for the raids. Once they were sent to Captain Chojnacki, he was headed home to finally sleep. An email popped up in his inbox. Flagged as SPAM, it was immediately banished to the relevant folder. Out of tired curiosity, his drowsy eyes skimmed the subject line. Eyes now wide, he recognized the sender. There was no way. It couldn't be…could it? His computer warned him this email could contain SPAM, and the sender was from an unverified, unsecured network. His brain groggy, Cole acted on emotion, and clicked to open the message.

 _Hey Bro!_

 _Okay, don't freak out. I just want to let you know I'm doing fine and haven't dropped off the Earth. I got in some misunderstandings with Natalie Ritter's dad, and uncle, and cousins, and, then every Stacy and her sister ganged up on me… you get the idea. So I needed some distance and time. California's where the real party's at anyway, and I'm not coming back anytime soon. Here's a pic of the view from my new back porch; bask in the awesome. It's okay to feel jealous. Let Cody, Chris, Clyde, Caleb, and Carl know I said hi; and they're all lame for still hanging around Bumblefuck, PA._

 _Peace from your favorite,_

 _-Craig_

Cole shifted the mouse to the attached file. He could not resist. He HAD to know. It was his right to know. Opening it, he found a selection of beach front photos, Craig with several girls on his arm, meals from boardwalk food trucks, and a balcony view of the sun sinking into the Pacific. Cole didn't realize he'd been holding his breath and allowed himself to relax; sinking into a slump in his chair.

"Oh…he _is_ alive…thank Syrinx."

. . .

The pictures were as false as political promises. All were shopped, spliced, and edited by Canti from Craig's Facebook account and a quick Google search. It wasn't a perfect letter to Cole, but it had to be just convincing enough. Once clicked, the embedded Ice Pick file went to work. Canti had secured a connection. At the same instant, every computer in the Philipsburg Library, Philipsburg High School, and the Osceola Mills Civic Center, came online. Canti had stuck them all with Ice Pick earlier, breezing through the Administrator's access with ten seconds of a Dictionary Attack; spamming the password requirement with guesses until something worked. Now Canti could control each machine and their server remotely, from the comfort of Josh's chair.

His first order of business was to instruct this Bot Army, all two hundred and sixty two of them, to begin copying, then relaying to him, _everything_ on the State Patrol's server. He suspected he wouldn't get everything without being detected. Priority was given to the emails, then most recent documents going back through time. Josh had not expressed any interest in arrest records, personal data, reports from officers, prisoner details from lockup or the penitentiary, or digital copies of regular paperwork.

'Two things that we need:' Josh had instructed. 'Their emails, and their inventory records. That's it. If you can get or find something else important, go for it. But emails and inventory come first. Oh, it should go without saying…' Josh had warned before donning his welding mask. 'Don't get caught.'

. . .

The System Administrator, Sys-Admin for short, at the State Patrol was starting his second mug of coffee. His main task was backing up data in case of accidental deletion. It had happened more times than he dared to count. The rest of his time was split between cleaning up malware from officers visiting restricted sites, and swatting away the occasional high schooler trying to impress his friends.

'Holly had better not be visiting _anything_ but her work email…' He settled into his plush chair. 'One more _accidental_ visit to Playgirl and I'm reporting her…what's…oh, Ho-Lee-SHIT.' The Sys-Admin nearly spat coffee across his keyboard.

"What the hell's this?!" He brought up his network display, showing all computers in the State Patrol office, and what was running on them. Every computer was running a massive file transfer, sending terabytes worth of information out of the station. A quick task search told him a full backup of the server was in progress, to a third party platform. He lifted his phone.

"Chojnacki."

"Captain, it's Didion. Was a remote backup scheduled that I was not included in?"

"A…what?"

"Someone is copying all of our data, someone not us."

"Oh." It took a moment. "Wait, no, NO! NO, it's an attack, shut it down!"

"Done." Didion promised and hung up. 'I'll just take Admin control of whichever machine it is and…oh shit. ALL of them?!' Ice Pick had spread through the email system and made itself at home on every machine in the address book. It now had individual passwords, each machine's data, and even its keylogger on the Sys-Admin's station. Didion attempted to remotely disconnect the machine he thought the source: Officer Kauffman's unit. A message chided him, saying he didn't have permission to access that device. Now Didion felt a twinge of panic. Evaluating his options, he at least wasn't totally locked out, so he had that goin' for him; which was nice. The router display listed all computers connected to the station's server, and the two hundred and sixty two _other_ IP addresses.

'Someone's built themselves one fuck of a botnet.' Didion concluded, taking a picture of the IP list with his phone and printscreen function. He would back-track them later. Meanwhile he tried accessing any other computer as his phone rang, no doubt officers complaining they were suddenly locked out. Each time he was rebuffed, the passwords and credential information had been changed. Whomever was running the botnet now owned every computer at the station. Out of options, Didion left the comfort of his chair.

Out of his office and down the hall was the server room. Its locked door had not stopped the intrusion. He located the bundle of Ethernet chords, neatly managed in a wrist thick blue and grey bundle at the back of the eight foot tall, three by three across tower. In a hasty, port damaging tug, he yanked the bundle out. For good measure, he pulled down the breaker handle and physically pulled the power supply plug. With the infiltrator cut off, the outgoing data stream stopped. Now the questions were: what did they get, how did they get in, and who were they anyway?

. . .

Canti felt cheated. Whomever was on the other end hadn't put up much of a fight. They had simply cut the connection. He had gotten most of what he had searched for, but was still disappointed. Now he had to sort through it all and hope something useful had been gained. But as an unexpected bonus, he'd gotten an up-close look at Medical Mechanica encryption, and that made him and The Something feel satisfied indeed.

. . .

Cole stood outside Captain Chojnacki's office, feeling like he had been sent to the principal for acting a fool in class. The door opened and Chojnacki waved him in. Chojnacki returned to his desk and faced Cole. Didion, the station's System Administrator was there, and so was The Man in Black. Chojnacki appeared sternly concerned, Didion half petrified to death upon finding himself in the same room as The Man, who himself was an unreadable blank.

"Alright Cole, close the door." Chojnacki started. "What happened?"

"There was a breach of our network, and a large amount of data was copied before Didion shut the server down…and I believe I know how."

"And…?" Chojnacki leaned back, arms folded. The Man was either listening intently, or asleep, behind his smoked glasses.

"I was sent an email, from my brother Craig; or…someone pretending to be him. You know how he went missing a few weeks ago. The message was him, or the sender, saying he was alive and doing well, and not to worry. There was an attachment, with photos of him in California. I believe malware was embedded in the file I…"

"That's enough, thank you." Chojnacki waved his hand. "Didion's explained all that, and more."

"Then why bother asking?"

"To see if your story matched his, to see if you were lying."

"What?! Do you think **_I_** did this? Remember who HE contacted first. Me! Not you, Captain."

"Simmer the fuck down, Patrolman." Chojnacki barked. "I am still your commanding officer, and will be addressed as such. No, I don't suspect you, but wondered if there could have been something Didion had missed. Speaking of…"

"I have the list of what the attacks got a copy of." Didion adjusted his glasses. "It was strange. They got a copy of all our emails, our inventory, and a few program files; none of those programs are any trade secret I might add."

"Anything…else?"

"Uh, well. There is one set of files they got, I don't think they were looking for it, since after emails and inventory they were copying newest files first and going in descending order. That's why they picked up the program files, since they are automatically backed up every…"

"Skip a bit, please."

"Sir." Didion straightened his posture. "Captain, whether they realize it or not, they have gotten a copy of The List."

"Are you certain of this?" The Man seemed unfazed by the revelation. He may's well been told water was wet.

"I am positive, Sir." Didion answered The Man as firmly as possible. "Sir, I must apologize for my failure. I, I…"

"Don't." The Man shook his head to Didion's apology. "Find me the location, the name, the face, of who did this, get the data back…and then, perhaps I will entertain your excuses. You have much work to do, you are dismissed." Didion was all too eager to disappear and did so as fast as possible without sprinting from the room. "So, your brother. Craig?"

"Yes. I, I thought it could really be him." Cole admitted.

"And you didn't stop to think it too good to be true? Your brother, missing for weeks, contacts you on your _work_ email? Cole…I must say I'm disappointed. I thought you were better than this."

"Respectfully Sir, you don't understand. After my mother passed, and my father being…himself, I was the _only one_ keeping the family together; and mostly still am. I was the only one that could, and as the oldest, it was my place, my birthright! I was, and am, responsible for them. So yes, when I thought it was Craig, I had to be sure."

"Be that as it may, Craig is no longer a concern of yours." The Man decreed. "Alive or not, he abandoned his post without leave or dismissal, disgraced his commission, and left his assignment unfulfilled. Should he reappear, Craig is to be treated as persona non grata. Any and all communication from him, or his name, is to be considered a trap. Am I clear?"

"But…what if it really is Craig?"

"Then you will have to determine what is more important." The Man smiled. "Your sworn allegiance to The Red Star of The Solar Federation and Teachings of Syrinx…or a delinquent brother who has dropped out of all sight and mind; and is more than likely decomposing in a railyard somewhere. Choose."

"I understand. My apologies, I was out of line." Cole bit down hard on his cheek and remembered his place.

"That's better." The Man turned to Chojnacki. "If our list is out in the wrong hands, then it is only a matter of time."

"Yes, I agree. It cannot be helped." Chojnacki solemnly agreed.

"What is? What's only a matter of time?" Cole's mind, after believing he was accused of sabotage, was engaged in full conspiracy mode. What was only a matter of time? He wasn't privy to something, what? Were Chojnacki and The Man talking behind his back? Had a secret deal been struck? Was this electronic attack on his computer, with his email, an elaborate excuse to get rid of him?

"Cole? Are you paying attention at all?"

"Sorry Captain. I still haven't slept."

"Then it can wait." The Man said. "Go home, rest. We will call you when you are needed." Cole left, shutting the door on a still talking Chojnacki and Man in Black. He felt as though an invisible target had been placed on his back.

. . .

"Hang on, I forgot something." Haruko turned back to the shop. It was lunchtime. Josh, Johnny, and Mike had decided to eat out and piled into Johnny's truck for McDonalds. Naota and Haruko instead opted for something out of the Country (In)Convenience deli.

"Hurry up then, I'm starving." Naota waited on a lowboy trailer while Haruko slipped back into the shop. She took large strides, straight for the scrap bin. In bin corner, under some hacked up grating, she extracted her hidden piece: a tube with the spiral grooves cut into its inside. It was the last part she needed. With nowhere easy to hide the two foot long tube, she slipped it into the left leg of her jumpsuit, and since she had the upper half unzipped, retied the sleeves doubly tight about her waist to hold the tube in place. A few practice steps made her feel reasonably sure the tube wouldn't fall out.

"Find it?" Naota asked as she rejoined him.

"Hmm?" Each step rolled the tube against her hip. She should have bloused her jumpsuit's legs into her boots so the tube couldn't fall out by her foot. It was too late now, so she moved to Naota's left side and clamped her arm tight against her leg.

"Whatever it was you were looking for."

"Oh, right, yeah. Good to go."

"'Kay. Hey, where are you going _now?_ " They were passing his house and she made an excuse to use the bathroom 'while they were there'. She hid the tube on her bunk, wrapping it in half the sheets. The rest she'd bring home in her lunchbox and assemble at night when everyone else had nodded off.

. . .

If Canti was reading things correctly, he now possessed three items capable of destroying the State Patrol's credibility and standing in both counties, and take down the Philipsburg and Osceola Mills departments in its death thrashes as well. If he so chose. But he had been assigned a specific task and reported to Josh accordingly.

"'Sup C-Man? Wait, no…that's not…" Josh had half a burger in his mouth as he, Mike, and Johnny returned from lunch. "Sorry, how about C-Dog? No?"

"You had your chance, and blew it doofus." Mike enjoyed his schadenfreude. "Just stick to whatcha know, stop tryin' so hard."

"Yes, _Mother._ Anyway…what's happenin'?" Once seated in his chair, Josh nearly fell off it again as Canti showed his morning's handiwork. "G, gu, guh, guy, guys, guys…GUYS!" Mike and Johnny joined them.

"Whoa, that's a _ton_ of data!" Mike reflexively reached for his pocket notebook and pen. Josh batted his hand away. "What?!"

"Don't be writing any of this stuff down!"

"Alright, jeez, fine. What all is in here?"

"This was everything I could transfer." Canti's words scrolled across his face. "Someone on the other end detected me, and then cut me off."

"Do you think they'll be able to back-track it to us?" Mike looked out the bay doors as if he expected a SWAT team to arrive momentarily.

"I highly doubt it. They'll have to decide which of the two hundred and sixty three signals is the most likely culprit; a difficult task when all of them attacked at the same time. The police are chasing over two hundred suspects."

"That was a damn right beautiful botnet you built. Grade-A Certified." Josh praised, then fiddled for a nervous tic cigarette. "W-wait a minute…oh no…"

"What is it?" Canti leaned in with everyone.

"An email exchange between an armorer at the State's station, and Cole Kauffman himself." Josh tapped the screen with his cigarette's butt, and the other two lit up as well. Canti had realized after watching smokers for a few years now, the calming effects of cigarettes, and the G&R trio were burning through theirs. He recognized the signs of three gaskets primed to blow. "Seems they had _blank_ warrants for the raids last night. Well…well… _WELL._ Why am I not fuggin' surprised?!"

"What do we do now? We have not even looked at a sliver of the data."

"I'm calling George." Johnny was marching to the shop phone. "This's unacceptable. Someone needs to fuckin' _burn_ for this."

. . .

"Y'ello?" George answered his phone over the gunfire of a platoon, practicing their marksmanship. They were one platoon of 116, and at least a dozen each practicing at the seven different sites. They fired again and George walked off to somewhere less disturbed. Twenty-five AK's firing in sync makes for a bit of noise. Lucky for us, there has always been blasting at Solomon's Mines. Any eavesdropper would have their eardrums blown out before being able to tell the difference.

"They're getting pretty good." Tommy understated as steel targets three hundred yards away rang with each hit. "And to think, a few days ago, some had never held an AK before."

"Mister Carson, that may be true…" One of Mr. Pike's employees, a veteran of the Gulf War, Bosnia, Kosovo, and several years as a private contractor in Africa before Mr. Pike brought him stateside, spat tobacco. A man after my heart. He was part of the combat experienced cadre bringing the rest up to snuff. "But lemme tell yah a trade secret. I can train a fuckin' monkey to run an M16 or AK-47 in three days. Did it with guys who couldn't read or write, never had held a gun, or even seen any machinery more complicated than antique farm equipment. Gimme ten days and I'll bring a novice to a level of near-expert with his gun. That's fuckin' easy. Wanna know the hard part?"

"'S that?"

"Convincing him to actually use the damn thing, as in actually put the irons right on some cannibal's X-ring at thirty yards, and pull the trigger, then _keep shooting_ 'till the other guy stops twitching. The hard part is getting him to overcome this damn nanny state's pussified aversion to violence and inflicting some serious, fucking-up level of bodily harm. Far, _far_ harder than showing them the mechanics of gunfighting."

"I couldn't have put it better." Tommy watched the shooters demonstrate their rifles were clear before walking downrange. "Do you think these guys will, when the time comes?"

"Against Medical Mechanica? Sure, this M-M's a buncha aliens. It's like asking if our guys would shoot at an invading army of five foot cockroaches. No problem, of course they would." He shrugged, gesturing back to town, ten miles away. "But the cops? The County Mountie? Different story. They may not like 'em, hate 'em even. But it's hard to kill someone when your kids are in the same homeroom, wives both in the same Avon Lady group, and you're in the same bowling league. So I don't know. Fifty-fifty."

"What about you, yourself?" Tommy asked and got a dark laugh, from some deep, shadowy place far and away.

"Mister Carson, before Mister Pike nabbed me with his talk of steady, direct deposit checks and being home every night, I did this for a living. Believe me when I say that not only am I ready, I've got a list of names I mean to pick bones with. I fought too many dictators and warlords in Africa to tolerate one in my backyard."

"We'll pencil you down as 'having potential.' I'm just glad you're on our side. Although…the other side does pay better…"

"They always do Mister Carson, they always do."

"Johnny?! Johnny…J…Johnny. Johnathon! If you cannot control yourself like _half_ a human being, I'm hanging up!" George had one finger in his non-phone ear to block out the restarted gunfire. "For cripes sake. Well, oh fine, be that way. Put Mike on. Yes, now. Crimeny…yeah, Mike?" George waved for us, so we said our goodbye and walked over. I couldn't make out words, but could mark tempo. It was between 'seven year old girl who actually got a pony for her birthday' and 'pant-shitting panic.'

"Georgeyour'renotgonnabelievewhatCantijustfoundinthe…"

"Mike! You're not helping either! Is there an adult in the room _somewhere?_ God, I can't leave anyone in this outfit alone for five minutes…Johnny?" Johnny was back on, maybe third time's the charm. "Okay, that's much better. Now, what's going on?"

"You'll forgive us once you've seen." Johnny's voice was charged still, but under control. "We have an email record of the raids last night, and they're looking at multiple felonies as appetizers. The rest you need to see yourself."

"Okay, on the way." George didn't waver, deliberate or delay. "Tommy, Jeff! We're needed at home."

. . .

The Man in Black surveyed his audience: Aldrich, Andrew, Warburg, Strong, Sarabyn, and Chojnacki. Only one knew why they were there. The rest nervously fidgeted.

"Good morning, gentlemen. Time is no longer on your side, so I will be blunt. Today, this station suffered an information attack. Despite the best security Medical Mechanica offers, an officer here rendered it null by unwittingly downloading a malware virus. This virus…"

"What kind of a moron clicks on SPAM mail?" Aldrich could not resist a good scoffing. "Same guy who believes those 'male enhancement ads', amiright?"

"Mayor, before you exceed your ego's capacity, allow me to remind you that before my arrival, the computer in your office was protected with the password of…password." The Man curtly reminded. "Please do not stupefy the room with your hypocrisy." Aldrich began his best imitation of a statue. "This virus downloaded a copy of this station's emails, inventory logs, and other miscellaneous files. It also secured a copy of your List."

Mayor Andrew, the rest of the room all felt it but he showed it the worst, looked as if he were going to be ill. The Man waited for a response to see who would crack. Surely it wouldn't be one of the officers, would it?

"Well, shit. We're fucked then, aren't we?" Shamefully, Sarabyn had disappointed The Man by breaking first. "If these hackers have half a brain, they've put everything together by now. In another hour or two, they'll be all over the net and telling everyone and their brother. Which officer of yours is the numbnuts that's screwed us?!" Sarabyn rounded on an indignant Chojnacki. "I want their head dammit! Letting this kind of info leak, just what kind of outfit do you Smokey's run up here?"

"Sheriff, that will be _quite,_ _ **enough.**_ " The Man's tone saw Sarabyn join Aldrich in the art gallery of statuesque silence. 'One small hiccup and they're ready to turn on each other. They make this all too easy.' The Man thought and smiled to himself. A race more prone to internal bickering always yielded faster as they were too busy with petty politics to realize their true threat.

"How do we present this, to the public?" Andrew was thinking ahead. "Obviously we don't focus on the actual content at all, best to never mention it…focus instead on the act itself; the burglar, not what he stole."

"Can we do that? I mean, it's not like we can control or stop anyone from reading the leak once it gets spread." Aldrich forgot he was supposed to be mute. "Let's get Vanderlip and Davison in on this, hear their thoughts. If I can borrow your phone Captain…"

"Do not. TOUCH. That phone." The Man's order was heeded. "You are missing the point. First, our hand is being forced; deliberately or not. Someone is altering the Script. Second, this was not a bored child with spare time. This was a deliberate, targeted attack. There are enemies probing your defenses, looking for cracks, and gathering information. Meanwhile, you're quibbling among yourselves, and are _still_ using the phones when it should be completely obvious your communications have been compromised."

"But we need to tell everyone how this's a fabrication, that the List is outright fake; or at least for, I dunno, record keeping or something? Right?"

"Strong, no organization ever keeps a List of persons they intend to eliminate, if they do not intend to eliminate everyone on that List." The Man made his orders explicit. "From here on out, ALL electronic communications are considered compromised. Phone, email, text, satellite uplinks. The only thing we can tentatively use is two-way radio, and that will need verification. Bearing that in mind, I assure you, the List is making the rounds as we speak. So we will make use of it before anyone on it can make real preparations or inform the rest; making the List useless, and yourselves irresistible targets. Mayors, open your white envelope. Officers, ready your Troopers."

. . .

"Josh, Mike…are you… _sure_ that's what you wanna do?" The office was crowded with Josh, Johnny, Mike, Canti, George, Tommy, and the baddest radio tower saboteur and most suave basement band singer of Appalachia, (that, that'd be me…in case y'all got confused with someone else…I'll shut up now.) packed in. Josh was pitching George a back of the envelope idea he and Mike had concocted.

"They've got a right to know." Josh stood his ground. "Look, I'm as well read on our manual for relations concerning the public at large as anyone else in this office…"

"You actually read that thing?" Mike had to ask. "What. A. Nerd."

"Quiet you. Let he be without sin cast the first stone; fan-fiction readin', monster-girl fanboy, weeaboo."

"Touche."

"Look, we need every advantage we can get, or create; and the more unconventional and from left field, the better."

"I just…it's too unpredictable in outcome." George…George, c'mon! You were doing so well this morning. Now you're waffling again. "Dumping this on everyone, I mean, there's a million different ways this could go; or it could go nowhere at all. I don't know which would be worse, to be frank."

"Well, if you're Frank, then I'll be Earnest." Johnny weighed in from the couch. "All of us have, more than we have right to, have bitched and moaned how we wish the people were more proactive, more involved and 'situationally aware' as Mike puts it; and he is spot on with that sentiment I must say. In remembering that, I support the idea, and I'll even tell you why." Johnny took a long drag and knocked ash. "Right now, it's only a matter of when, not if, that Man tracks Canti's trail back here. Nothing will come of that except a fugly mess, followed by a controlled message in the papers; and everyone goes back to sleep. Should we go forward though, there will be web, phone, and just face to face, chatter in such a high volume, sifting through it all would be impossible. Add on everyone is still mighty pissed about Rick, especially since nothing has gone forward because the cops don't know how to put the pin back in that grenade, and we'll have a People who are neck deep involved in their local affairs. A few thousand small revolutions at the same time"

"When you frame it like that…I wonder why we didn't think of doing that in June?" Tommy said from behind his desk; feet propped on it. "I second Johnny's seconding."

"D'yah think I should run this by Naota, to keep him in the loop? We've included him on most things so far."

"Hmm…" I had put George on the spot again. All of us could tell he didn't like it. Me, being the bundle of eternal optimism I am, already had resigned to this being a missed opportunity. Some days, it's nice to be wrong. "As much as I respect his opinion, no Rig. Naota is still on a need-to-know basis and we've trusted him with far more than usually allowed. It's also a matter of plausible deniability. Should this blow up in our faces, I am not dragging him down with us in the court martial; should we survive that long. And he is too friendly with Haruko for my liking, so again no. I'm making a call and sticking with it. Mike, Josh…your, what was it again? Your, weird kids you are, Operation Shitposter, is a go. Make 'em squirm."

. . .

By the time Mayors Aldrich and Andrew returned to their offices, Josh and Mike had been waging an information war for two hours. How? Simply by doing what they did best: cackling with mad glee while relentlessly posting, uploading, tagging and emailing, and making an un-ignorable, shitposting nuisance of themselves. While a short time in the grand scheme of things, two hours can be an eternity on the internet. Through Facebook, Gab, and the gamut of every social media platform fielded, a set of dummy dead-end emails and the city's very own websites, the purloined State Police emails, inventory, and their List, were published in full, raw, unedited, uncut, uncensored, unadulterated, and unapologetic format; with a few helpful hints sprinkled within.

The List was an itinerary of persons deemed subversive, threatening, dangerous, or in outright critical need of elimination. A kill list as it was being called while circulated around the web. Some people were not surprised to see their names, darkly joking it was a matter of pride. Others were not so pleased, responses ranging from horrified shock to vessel-blowing anger. The inventory lists fleshed out the methods intended to work on the List. Machine guns, grenade launchers, night vision, thermal FLIR, tons of explosives, every manner of body armor from head to toe, the gamut of less-lethals and riot control devices, a fleet of armored vehicles indistinguishable by the average public from a tank, and even a shipment of what was widely debated to be a coded phrase for 'honest to Jumpin' Jesus Christ, fuckin' rocket launchers.'

As The Man in Black refused to keep any written record of anything he did, physical or electronic, there were no explicit references to Medical Mechanica, The Red Star, or The Man himself. There were, however, the exchanges between Cole and the armorer, exchanges in collusion with the local departments and Sheriff's office, other instances of blank warrants, officers under reporting seized assets and drugs for personal use or gain, and bragging about arrests they'd gotten away with that were blatant, unloving and un-lubed, fistings of pristine law. The people of Philipsburg and Osceola Mills were at a high simmer and ready to boil over.

It was at this point the Mayors opened their private safes and slit open a white envelope inside. It contained instructions from The Man for just such an emergency. Each item on the list read in the scheme of DEFCON levels, only there were three instead of five. Delighted to be relieved of making their own responses to the leaks, the Mayors were taken aback when finding a citizenry suddenly taking a vested interest in their town's going-ons. A few dozen of the usuals were expected, and half the town showed up.

. . .

"Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen, members of the press…" Mayor Andrew took a moment to scan for Arsene Lupin and breathed a sigh of relief when he couldn't spot him. "Some rumors have been making their rounds, regarding the falsified emails, supposedly between our men and women of law enforcement. I wish to dash these unfounded rumors. They are only a childish retaliation, a tit-for-tat from supporters and admirers of those apprehended in searches last night. The…"

. . .

"…searches were only the first steps. It is now undeniably obvious these perpetrators, these terrorists, have greater numbers than initially thought." Mayor Aldrich had been scanning in near panic for a reappearance of Henry Bowman. Thus far, he remained absent. "And now they have retaliated in the only cowardly, underhanded manner they know, by hacking our State Patrol in a blatant violation of fairness, honesty, decency, and black and white color of the law. Tracking down of these despicable…"

"Oh, whatcha gonna do?! Have all the hackers mowed down like your trigger-happy fucks shot the Dryphus's?!" Aldrich's blood pressure spiked, thinking Henry Bowman had made his entrance. Rather, it was Mr. Shantz, who had closed shop in the middle of the day to come to the conference. Activity around town had ground to a halt with everyone taking an early, extended lunch. "I'd sure's _HELL_ like an answer toot-freakin' sweet, because MY NAME is on YOUR list." Mr. Shantz's baritone boomed with artillery-style volume, rattling the windows. "Am I a terrorist, a despicable deplorable, a saboteur?! I run a hardware store you authoritarian asshole, not a bomb factory!"

"Mister Shantz, if you cannot behave, I will have you removed!"

"Oh yeah? I'd like to see _you_ try."

. . .

"Really Gerald, please conduct yourself in a manner befitting the venue!" Davison, trying to back up his boss, implored Jerry of Hi-Way Pizza. It had come to light even Jerry was on the List, and neither he, nor at least half of Osceola Mills was having any amount of such ball-slappingly stupid dumbassery. Still dressed in their aprons, dusted with flour and smelling strongly enough of garlic to ward off Dracula, the staff of Hi-Way were all present and accounted for in the massive crowd.

"Or what? Gonna have that cop from Philipsburg shoot my dogs tonight? Raid Hi-Way and 'accidentaly' burn it down?"

"You are taking things completely out of context. This is only a measure for the safety of everyone, so law enforcement can more efficiently utilize their resources."

"And what's that got to do with _ME?_ Or hell, any of us?"

"I am not privy to law enforcement processes or decision making. My role is to express that our law enforcement is only acting in our best collective interests."

"Is that so?" Another crowd member jumped in. "How is still holding Rick Stilton in Philipsburg without trial or bail part of that best collective interest?"

"That is a matter of the Philipsburg city and police, not Osceola Mills…"

"That's not a 'no' I'm hearing. A simple no would've done."

"It is a matter completely irrelevant to the discussion! Now if we could _please_ get back on topic…thank you. As I was saying, a follow-up set of raids is being planned. These are based on intelligence gathered during the last set. All this falsified data is, is a desperate act of scared and cornered lawbreakers trying to confuse you, and turn you against the only people who've been consistently on your side and risking themselves for your best interests! We all have our own specialties…" In the heat of the argument, Davison went off script. "Jerry's is pizza, yours Jones is machining, mine is city management, and the law enforcement community's is just that, enforcing the law. Speculation and uninformed opinions that grow into full-blown conspiracy theories far outside our respective spheres is unhelpful, counterproductive, and should cease immediately. I mean, I wouldn't tell Jerry how he should bake a pizza, would I?"

"Hey Davison!" Jerry hollered so everyone could hear. "I may not be a doctor, just a dumb pizza maker, but may I suggest to you a diet rich in bagged dicks?!"

. . .

"Yeah, I got a comment for yah!" Someone had actually answered Aldrich's closing remark of 'questions, comments, or concerns'. He'd hoped to toss it off and be rid of the conference. "GET BENT!" A glass bottle was hurled from somewhere in the crowd, missing Aldrich just closely enough he read 'Boylan Black Cherry: Made with Real Cane Sugar' on the label as it spun past his head and shattered on the wall. It was well past time to leave. The conference had failed.

. . .

Vanderlip, Davison, and their staff, retreated once again into Osceola Mills City Hall, but this time rocks, bottles and furious words followed them up the steps.

"Davision, respectfully…that was a mistake." Rogers was the only one brave enough to say it; even as a brick sailed through the office window. "Vanderlip, we've fucked up."

"No…" Vanderlip looked capable of murder, Davison appeared to have already committed several in his mind. "After the cops are through, they'll be sorry."

. . .

Haruko had waited until two in the morning before slipping out of bed. Every move in the house made a creak, crack, groan, or tweak of something, but the Nandaba men snored on. From the covers she took the tube, and her lunchbox into the kitchen, the rest of the parts. She had three hours before Shigekuni woke up, and four and a half until Naota did. She went to the back porch, fighting the urge to shiver in the dead of night chill. The lunchbox was upended on the table and the parts sorted like puzzle pieces. Three hours to figure out just what those Carsons were up to…no problem.

"Drinking fountain parts, my ass…" She muttered, fitting the first pins into place. "Where there's funky smells, there's bullshit. I checked, there is no company in Scranton that makes fountain parts. Steel knuckles, a private runway, now this? What have you had me building this week? We'll see…"

. . .

Friday morning dawned as uneasy as everyone under the sun. For reasons known only to his sixth sense, which was screaming at him in his inner ear, Naota was a ball of anxiety. Even Gus, Bolt, Sam, and Piddles: The Wonder Dog, stalked the Carson property with teeth bared and tails at Danger indication. Conversations were brisk and to the point. The weather couldn't make up its mind, hovering between darkness and sunny, the high pressure weighing on everyone. The day passed uneventfully, work was the same as it had always been. Just an average, regular day where nothing in the small town happened. Perfectly normal, perfectly ordinary. Naota had finally gotten his wish, and he was hating every minute of it.

. . .

The phone was ringing. Naota answered it.

"G&R Fabrication and Cranes, this is Naota. How can I help you?"

"N…Naota, who?!" I recognized the voice from across the shop as it shouted through the earpiece. "There's no Naota that works at G&R! Get off the phone kiddo, this's an important call!"

"I'm sorry sir, but this is G&R, and I do very much work here. Could you hold on for…oh Rig. Here, take this will you?"

"Sure Nao'. Lemme deal with this one. Hello, this is Jeff Carson, how can I help you today?"

"Ah, there we go!" Yep, definitely recognize this voice. "Rig, it's Shifty, I'm back planetside."

"It took you long enough. Did you get lost or something? You were due in two weeks ago; George isn't going to be happy when you get in."

"Well! I never!"

"Shifty, you'd lose a game of 'Never Have I Ever' on the first go 'round. Where have you been anyway?"

"Have you heard about you-know-what taking over the Sargon System? They were supposed to be my flight change, so I was rerouted midflight. And it's not like I had any say in the matter, suspended animation and all that y'know."

"You'll have to convince George of that, he's the one you'll answer to."

"Not your Dad? Why's George running things?"

"Oh. Right. You've been on vacation. Shifty…my Dad is…"

"Oh no, he's…I'm sorry Jeff; I really am. Your Dad, he was like a brother to me."

"I know."

"…Well, I'm borrowing the train's phone, should be in Altoona soon. Can someone come down and pick me up?"

"I'll come down and meet you. I'll bring the new guy along, provided you've been checking your messages since you've gotten back?"

"Wait…is the new guy that Naota kid that answered the phone?"

"The same."

"Well, stick a tail to my butt and call me a Jackass. Can't believe I started the call like that, been away from civilization too long. Okay, I'll be discrete. Bring the new guy along, lemme have a look at him. I…hang on Jeff." Someone was butting in and demanded use of the train's phone. "And a good-after-fuck-you-too-noon to you too! I paid my quarters so get in line! Sorry, what?"

"You said Altoona Station?"

"Yep! I forwarded some of my effects, should be in their safe. Check soon's you get there, okay?"

"Will do. See you at…?"

"It's two now, so three hours."

"Today's been slow. We'll see you there. Try not to get thrown off the train meanwhile, eh?"

"No promises. See you at five." Shifty killed the call. Two weeks late, but no fault of his own. Well, at least that was his version. I only knew him as Shifty Shaufner, so you do the math. But there was no one else we at G&R wanted around more with a Man in Black on the prowl than him.

"Hey Naota! You're with me, we're going on a field trip."

. . .

Naota had been to Altoona several times to meet up with Tasuku and watch him play for the Altoona Curve. This would be the first time for a work related function. Rig explained Shifty had been on vacation, having cashed in five years' worth of unused off days.

"So what did he do on his six months off?" Naota asked as they waited in the train station. "I don't know what I'd do with that kind of free time. Probably die of boredom after two weeks."

"He went on a safari." Rig answered, looking up and down the tracks. The train was due any moment.

"Safari? That sounds dangerous, exciting though. Did he get anything?"

"You'll have to ask him when he gets here. He was out where they don't have any communications. The phone call today was the first time we heard from him since he left." A train rounded the corner and pulled into the station, spilling its human cargo onto the platform. Not knowing who to look for, Naota scanned from someone who looked like they lived off gas station coffee and unfiltered Camels. At the last car, he spotted him.

Shifty Shaufner was middle-aged, tall, lanky and rail thin. A Sam Elliot mustache covered his upper lip, a week's worth of stubble roughed his face and neck, and hair in danger of becoming a mullet, all iron grey, spilled out from under a green hat. Behind precariously perched glasses, a narrowed set of grey eyes made him look…well…shifty. The yellow lettering of G&R Fabrication and Cranes on his hat sealed his identity.

"Hey-hey, ho-ho, whaddyah know! It's Jeff Carson, and you must be the Notorious Naota." Shifty shook both their hands with shoulder wrenching enthusiasm. Digging a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket, he asked if they minded. "Don't let you smoke on trains these days. Oh… _ffff…foooo…_ did you check with the front desk?"

"I did, they have your stuff." Rig said and they went to the station's ticket desk. They were holding for Shifty two long cases, and two small ones the size of laptops. Shifty had a third laptop sized case he had carried from the train in addition to the duffel on his shoulder. As they carried them to Rig's truck, Naota noticed a pattern of dimpled scars on the crook of Shifty's elbows. They appeared to be a series of injection points gathered over a lifetime.

"It's not heroin." Shifty had caught Naota staring. "It's my medication. I've been taking it since, well, since when I was 'bout your age."

"S-sorry! I didn't mean to stare."

"Don't worry about it, lots of people make the same assumption." Shifty smiled and they got in the truck. Naota also noticed Shifty held onto one case, the laptop sized one he'd carried off the train. Whatever was in it, was important enough he didn't let go of it even once.

'Must be his medication.' Naota concluded. 'Wonder what his condition is? Aside from his smoking, he doesn't _look_ too unhealthy…oh well. None of my business.'

"So how was the safari?"

"Hmmm?" Shifty had taken shotgun and turned around. "Safari?"

"Yeah, Rig said you were on a hunting trip?"

"Oh, yeah! Sorry, brain's a little tired. Not so much's a safari, those are guided with special rules and such. I just went off by myself and adventured around, hunting in the meantime."

"Did you get anything?"

"I did, but it's illegal to bring any of it back. Something about invasive species and exotic diseases. Took plenty of pictures though, I'll have to show 'em to yah sometime."

"Have you gotten any news of what's been going on at home?" Rig changed the subject to current events. Shifty said he, on purpose, had not. What was the point of vacation if the life you were getting away from followed you? For most of the ride back, Naota and Rig filled him in on everything that had transpired in the past six months; from Medical Mechanica and their encounters with Craig and Clyde, down to the local gossip and daily running of G&R.

"Things sound a lot like that old Chinese curse: May you live in interesting times. Robots, aliens taking over Roman's, another alien working at G&R, a kid with a wormhole in his head… _fff…foooo…_ " Shifty took the information dump well. "You sure I'm in the right dimension, this's the same alternative universe I left; right?"

"If I can guess your favorite joke, would that help?" Rig offered.

"Worth a shot, sure."

"What is the difference between a Genealogist, and a Gynecologist?"

"Dunno. What?" Shifty already seemed to know the answer, grinning like a loon.

"A Genealogist looks up your family tree, while a Gynecologist looks up your family bush."

"HAHAHA! Yep, I'm in the right place. You got any good jokes in yah, Naota?"

"Uh…sure, I got a few that're okay. Let's see…What is the process of applying for a waitressing job at Hooters?"

"No idea. What?"

"They had you a bra and say: Here, fill this out."

"Heh-heh-heh, clever! Y'see Naota, I like a good joke or story, and for them to be well told. That's why I'm often forced to tell them myself."

"Isn't that like talking to yourself because that's the only way you can get an expert opinion? Rig does that ALL the time."

"I'm glad you work for G&R." Shifty gave a fond smile and flicked a cigarette butt out the window. "Good call hiring him Rig, you picked a good one. Hey, I've got one."

"Go for it."

"What goes in hard and dry, and comes out soft and wet?"

"Uh…uhmmm, it's a…a, uh…"

"It's chewing gum, Nao'." Rig grinned in the rearview mirror. "What did you think it was?"

"I didn't have a guess."

"Sure, sure…" Shifty saw through him. "Got another joke at least?"

"Let me think. What three words will ruin a man's ego?"

"I think I know this one…not from, y'know, personal experience or anything…what?"

"Is it in?"

"Yep…that'll do it alright. But, do you know the reply that'll destroy her ego right back?"

"No."

"The words to destroy her ego: I can't tell."

"Ouch, that's harsh."

"I'd like to join this table." Rig jumped in. "What's the speed limit of sex?"

"What is it? Do tell."

"Sixty-eight. At sixty-nine, you have to turn around."

"Ah, another clever one." Shifty praised. "Okay, what's the perverted frog say?"

"I got nothin'. What?"

"Rubbit, rubbit, rubbit…" The truck filled with laughter. Shifty was alright.

. . .

Back home, I sent Naota back to cranking out parts with Haruko. Mike and Josh were still having the time of their lives. Using Canti's botnet they crashed the city websites of Philipsburg and Osceola Mills, then took over while the sites were down, and were redirecting anyone who clicked on the link to the 12-hour version of Eduard Khil's 'I am so very glad as I'm finally returning back home.'

"It's good to have you back Shifty." George said as he, Tommy, and I, fleshed out the conversation during the drive up from Altoona.

"Uh-huh, and it's good to be back. I wish it were under a better moon, with M-M and the Kauffman's, cops and all. And you said a Man in Black?"

"That's right. Monsieur Chartier actually managed to get a picture of one." I said and Tommy handed over the security camera's photo. Shifty took it, saying nothing as he studied the figure captured to film. "We haven't actually seen or encountered him ourselves…"

"But if half of what you've told me is true, his handiwork is everywhere." Shifty adjusted his bifocals for a better look. "I don't see anything out of the ordinary about this one. Standard appearance, body type, uniform is standard for a humanoid type species similar to ours. He doesn't seem to have any obvious cybernetics or augmentations, not that he'd need them. That attaché case is their Mandrake Mechanism, so there's no telling what's in it."

"So, overall, that's good, right?"

"It's not bad…but still our number one threat." Shifty handed the photo back. "Have you had a chance to test these two robots you acquired? They could be useful against something like him."

"No, not yet." Tommy said. "Johnny, Josh, and Mike just got 'em fully working this week. We'll be testing over the weekend."

"We'll have to use every resource we can get. I've been at this since Rig's grandad hired me in '75, and Men in Black only have gotten smarter since then. The only reason I've lasted this long as I have are these; my little friends." Shifty patted the case on his lap. He'd been carrying it like the handle was grafted to his skin. I wouldn't have been surprised to see him with it handcuffed to his wrist.

"Shifty…I know I have no business asking…" I'd never had a chance to actually see Shifty use his case's contents, or even really knew what was inside it. "But, would it be okay if…"

"Lock the door, close the blinds, take the battery and SIM card out of your phones, disconnect the phone, computer from the internet, and unplug anything with electric current." He ordered and we hastened to obey. Shifty held the case to eye level and pressed one of several buttons around the handle. A small panel slid back and he pressed his left, then right eye to it so the case could scan his retinas. A small voice then stated: "User identified as: Master Sergeant David Shauffner. Please authenticate."

"I, Master Sergeant David Shauffner, do authenticate. Ascension. Seven. Fifteen. One. Two. Nineteen. Seven. Twenty five. Six. Thirteen. Six. Seven. Fifteen. Fourteen. Zero." Shifty gave one of dozens identifying placeholder words, followed by a fourteen number string. Not only was the computer inside listening for the placeholder and numbers, of which there was a rotating list Shifty had committed to memory after inputting them in himself when he first received the case, but it was also listening to his voice pattern for compatibility. Satisfied, the internal locks opened and the case's lid swung up. The darkened office now shone in a blue hue, radiating from the case and shining off Shifty and George's glasses.

"Okay Rig, come here." I approached as Shifty withdrew a Vial. "Be very, very, _VERY_ careful with this. It's worth half this planet's GDP."

"I will. I have it." A Vial is six inches long and two across, made of thick glass and protected and reinforced by a metal frame around it, and a metal cap at each end. One end has a screw off piece covering a rubber seal Shifty would pierce with a syringe. Two things surprised me about holding a Vial. First was how heavy it was for its size, easily ten pounds. Second was it was warm. Like, your jeans just out of the dryer warm. Within his case, Shifty had a total of five, including the one in my hand. He was carrying trillions of dollars' worth of technology, engineering and research.

"Why does it glow blue, and why is it warm?"

"Because what you are holding is a zero point zero, zero, zero, one percent solution of pure N.O. energy."

"I'm… _WHAT?_ " Now I felt the weight had tripled and wondered if we should have called the Bomb Squad to have them on standby.

"A zero point zero, zero, zero, one percent solution of pure N.O. energy." He repeated. "The blue is the balance of all the stabilizers and binders to keep that Vial from exploding and containing all the N.O. particles. It's warm and glows for the same reason anything radioactive glows and is warm, it's giving off low-level energy in the form of light and heat. And it's heavy because while N.O. particles are almost infinitely small, they're almost infinitely dense; blue, glowing, near-black holes I think was how it was explained to me back in the day."

"And you put this in your arm?"

"It's taken forty years of building up a tolerance, and the first ten years I could hardly use any of its effects; I was only focused on it not killing me. But yes, right in the arm." Shifty took the Vial back, replaced it, and closed the case. "But remember: if you're a Human, taking a Vial is the only way to stand a chance of killing a Man in Black."

. . .

Friday morning Cole reported into the station as usual. Activity was flurried, officers, staff, and Patrolmen in grim preparations. But it was disconcerting how, after congratulating him on his takedown of the Dryphus House and other raids, Cole couldn't get a square look from anyone. If felt as if everyone was avoiding his gaze. What was it? Was there a rumor, had something happened? The prickle of paranoia crawling up his back, Cole headed for Chojnacki's office. Just as he was entering, The Man in Black was leaving; along with the department's lieutenants. All of them but The Man scurried off upon seeing Cole.

"…Just between us Captain, of course. Ah! Patrolman Kauffman! Fresh to face the day I see."

"Good morning, Sir. Are we having a meeting, what with how the Mayor's statements were received?"

"Unfortunate as that was…" The Man consulted his pocketwatch. "We are not. I have an appointment that has just come up, so I must be on my way. Excuse me." The Man snapped his watch closed, tipped his hat to Cole, and departed.

"Captain, is there something going on I should know about?" Cole stood before Chojnacki's desk.

"Nothing out of the ordinary, certainly nothing I can imagine…" Chojnacki's frown at least appeared genuine. "Why? Have you heard, seen anything?"

"Nothing of worry." He knew Chojnacki wouldn't come outright and say it, so he'd play along; for now. "Everyone this morning just seems…tense. They seem to know, or at least suspect, something is coming. Now maybe it's the full night's sleep, but I seem to be the only one here, aside from Our Friend, who is relaxed."

"That's why we keep you around." Now Chojnacki's smile was too wide for Cole's liking. "Completely unfazed under pressure."

"What pressure is there this morning though?"

"OH! Sunovabitch, I forgot!" Chojnacki clapped himself upside the head. "Everyone you're seeing is the night shift that haven't gone home yet. Strong, Warburg, Sarabyn, The Man, and I had a meeting this morning. Our timeline has been bumped up."

"Up to when?"

"Tonight. Well, technically tomorrow morning. Oh-four-hundred. I'll explain it all during the briefing." So, they had been holding meetings with The Man and just _happened_ to not include him?! The first person The Man had contacted?! Did that not count for anything? And now he was only learning about a timeline change second hand, and only after the fact. "Cole? Cole? _Patrolman!_ "

"Sir?"

"There you are. You slept too hard, your head's still on the pillow. I was saying, as a forewarning, I am pulling you off your assault stack. You won't be kicking down the door, but will be calling the shots. Congratula…"

"What?! You're pulling me _OFF_ , me… _OFF MY_ assault stack? Perchance, why Captain? Am I stealing too much of your spotlight, is that it?"

"W…what? Cole, are you feeling okay? Maybe you'd better see the corpsman…"

"So you, Strong, Warburg, Sarabyn, and The Man can have your little knitting circle while the doc's shining lights in my eyes?"

"Jesus Blistering Christ, did Dryphus shoot your too?! If you'd untwist your panties for ten seconds…" Chojnacki's patience reservoir read 'Empty' and he too was standing. "You'd realize I'm _trying_ to promote you!"

"…Promote me?" Cole's whirlwind of potential plots screeched to a halt. "To?"

"Sergeant. We want you to head up the entire operation tonight and see how you handle it."

"The entire, you mean…?"

"All assault stacks, all task forces, would be at your command. You did well the other night. This is your chance to step up. Everyone will be watching."

It sounded too good to be true. The little voice in Cole's head told him so. No one jumps from Patrolman, over Corporal, straight to Sergeant and in control of a small army, after one night of successful raids. The wounding of Officer Roosevelt also nagged at him as another detracting reason; not because he felt any sorrow for the man. A man under his command was expiring in the hospital, he had no experience with an operation this large, and only a few hours to prepare, and they were seeing fit to promote him? As tempting as it was to be elated, Cole instead perceived the framework of him being set up to fail.

"We have everything planned out, that's why we wrote the Script up, and the List too, months ago. All you have to do is execute. We've done the boring work." While that helped slightly, there was another detail burning a hole in Cole's brain.

"There's one thing that still sticks out at me. It's…" Chojnacki's phone rang.

"Chojnacki. Yes, Didion, what did you find? You did? Interesting…very interesting. Okay, we'll incorporate that into our plan. Keep at it, don't leave anything to chance. Call me as soon as anything comes up. Thank you."

"What did he find?"

"One of the IP addresses from the attack yesterday came from the neighborhood of some of your favorite people: the Carsons. There are still dozens to track and pin down, but Didion is sure of this one. Were they the other thing that sticks out?"

"Is it that obvious?" Many a rage-red dream had been had of burning that rough shingled house to the ground, cutting every piece of metal, plate, vehicles and otherwise, up for scrap, grinding the shop's concrete foundation to aggregate, and then salting the entire property so not even scrub brush would grow; all with him leading valiantly from the front, first to kick down and rush through the door. Now it looked like he was instead going to be stuck in the tractor-trailer towed forward mobile command center.

"We don't always get exactly what we want. But this's certainly the next-best thing, wouldn't you say?"

"…Yes, I would. Thank you for the opportunity Captain, I am without words to describe how grateful I feel. I will not disappoint you."

"You are welcome. And don't be shy about feeling proud; you've earned it." After shaking Cole's hand, Chojnacki returned to his seat. "Now, we'll have a preliminary briefing in an hour, in the gym. It's the only place with enough space. Jays and Rahm should be there now, they'll get you up to speed."

"Thank you again Sir. I'll head over right away." Cole left the office furious. He'd mapped out his climb in his head, rung by rung. Simply being sling-shotted forward, without first a campaign of stunning raids, busts and operations to solidify a foundation of prestige and his own cult of personality, to have everyone stand in awe of his conquests, a veteran with a chest of service medals. Not someone who _stumbled_ into their position. Cole had wanted the entire package deal, and all the extras, amenities, options and perks available. Now he was being stuck in the geek shack, a trailer that reeked of sweat and mediocrity. And he would have to sit out the one single raid he had been dreaming of his entire life. This was beyond unacceptable. There was no way he would take this insult lying down. Chojnacki would pay for ruining everything.

. . .

* * *

Power politics I find fascinating to talk about, but I'm slow to grasp them fully, (ask anyone who's had to explain for me the politics behind Black Lagoon's Roberta's Blood Trail Arc. I loved it...didn't understand much of it...but damn it looked cool) and don't feel they're my strongest writing point. Then again, I don't have as much experience in writing them. I'd really appreciate it if you could throw any pointers my way in that regard. Writing shootouts, chases, aerial dogfights, and paragraphs pro and conning roller-delayed blowback versus gas stroke pistons is all very well and good...but I would like to add to my toolkit. Now, with that out of the way...

Not a TON of excitement in this one, but some important details I think we either filled in or are at least are on somewhat better standing. I'm sorry there wasn't any sight of The Head or anyone from Medical Mechanica besides The Man. I haven't forgotten they exist, don't worry.

We did meet another character, mentioned in the way-way back: David 'Shifty' Shaufner. In the original version of this story, to say his character was atrocious is being kind. I folded that character up, put it in the very far back corner of the attic, and am doing my best to forget it even existed. This new version still has the same role in Overwatch, but fleshed out much better this time. I'm very confident of this second iteration.

I know it's a lot to throw out after a few months of silence, but y'all can't miss me if I never leave. Thank you again for reading, do please let me know how politics sections turn out or can be improved, and I'll see you next time!


	18. Chapter 18

I know I said I'd written three chapters, and only posted one. The next two were ready to go, but as I was finalizing everything, I had an: Oh...right, I gotta go to work tomorrow. So a slight delay later, here we are! I think, if you enjoyed the basement brawl of Chapter 14, then here's something you'll REALLY like!

* * *

. . .

It had been a matter of when, not if, Haruko would get her Vespa up and running again. Now they watched her doing doughnuts around the shop's lot, putting it through its paces, testing its reworked limits by zooming off through the Boneyard, down the runway and back. All while looking the happiest she'd been since her arrival.

"This's wonderful and all…" Naota and Rig stood in a bay door as they watched. "But now what do we do? She's mobile again, probably off to who-knows-where, to do I can only imagine what, to some unsuspecting rube she'll completely sideline outta nowhere."

"You sound like you're almost concerned." Rig chewed hard and spat. "Like some grandmother worrying about her grandkids. Huuuhh-aaguughhhshs-hmm…" Rig adjusted his vocal chords to take on a fretful, pearl-clutching and disparaging grandmotherly warble. "Oh, _that_ Haruko! She used to be such a sweet child. Why, I remember us playing cribbage on the porch, such a good, Church-going girl she was. Now she's off with those… _hooligans_ , with their motorcycles, and that Devil Music they listen to! Next thing you know she'll be saying she's taken with some biker vandal, smoking mare-ih-jee-wanna, and, may God forgive me… _have a tattoo…_ "

"I'm sorely tempted to be impressed by that." Naota said as Rig transformed into a persnickety octogenarian, and back again. "But wasn't the idea to keep her here, until we could figure something out?"

"You think of anything? I sure's shit haven't."

"Ehh..well, ah…no. Not really." In the focus of tracking Craig and Clyde, plus the projects they had been on, actually dealing with the Tiger they had caught by the tail, had been far from forefront. Now it seemed like the Tiger was simply going to get up and amble off back into the jungle. "Well, there is the I.I.B. What about them?"

"What about them indeed?" Rig played with the carabiner on his belt loop. "Do we have a phone number for them, what's it again?"

"Interstellar Immigration Bureau. Remember that Commander Amarao and Lieutenant Kitsurubami I told you about?"

"Gotcha, gotcha, gotcha…sooo…negatory on them in your speed dial?"

"Big N-O, no. I'm sure my Dad does though, somewhere." Why he hadn't thought of that from the get-go felt like a 2x4 upside the head. "And he'll be back tonight, so I'll talk about it with him them."

"Speaking of your Dad, send him our way before dinner. George needs to talk with him about, rent or some such."

"Sure, can do." They watched Haruko make another pass, sitting cross-legged on the Vespa's seat, letting it drive itself. Rig remarked even he wasn't that nuts. "Maybe there's another way to contact the I.I.B. What if I say 'Medical Mechanica' out loud three times?"

"Couldn' hurt to try."

"Medical Mechanica! Medical Mechanica! Medical Mechanica!"

"Beetlejuice!" Shifty said as he walked by, headed for the office with Tommy and George. No Amarao or Kitsurubami materialized.

"So much for that. It only seems to have summoned a Wild Shifty."

"'S'okay. Worth a try. Hey, what's his story anyway?" Shifty hadn't divulged a single personal detail the drive back; except his repertoire of dirty jokes had no end. Well, and there were precisely six Skippy's gas stations between Osceola Mills and Altoona because Shifty had insisted, and was overruled by Rig's lead foot, they stop at each one for coffee.

"He's been here forever. Shifty's the only one left working that was around when G&R was relatively new; except for George of course. My grandad hired him at sixteen, and he's been here ever since. He's a bigger gun-nut than I am…"

"Say it ain't so!"

"Oh, but I do say, I do say indeed. Remember those cases he had waiting for him at the station?"

"Rifle cases, I think. They looked a lot like yours."

"Similar in color only, his are hand held Fort Knox's. They are his safari guns: a Weatherby Mark V Deluxe in 0.460 Weatherby Magnum, and, get this…you clenched, you ready?"

"Clenched. What?"

"A Holland and Holland Royal Double Rifle in 0.700 Nitro Express."

"WHAT. In the HELL. Does he shoot with _that?_ "

"Considering the bullets are over one thousand grains, or sixty five grams, the charge fires them at two thousand feet per second, with nine thousand foot pounds of force, and the cartridge itself is four and a quarter inches long, and makes an exit wound the size of a goddamn basketball…he shoots very, _very_ dangerous things with it. Dangerous things that need killin' so bad their ancestors will feel it."

. . .

"You've double-checked everything?" George asked Shifty for an update.

"Double, triple, quadrupled." Shifty answered, settling onto the couch and giving the office a nostalgic once-over. "Everything's exactly as I left it. You're doing an admirable job of running the shop too George. Hell, things're running so well, it's like you didn't miss me."

"Urban Dictionary called every other day asking for you." Tommy informed. "They said their contributor traffic had dropped in half."

"It's nice to know someone cares." Shifty grinned and lit up. "Really though, good to be home. I know we've got business at hand, but let me just say…the Fero System…Hunting Paradise. It'll be a thousand years before they can branch out beyond the four colonies there. You'll never find a more wild, untamed, savage and un-fuck-withable place; it's the Planet Australia. _Everything_ is trying to kill you."

"What, even those little Jumper Mice, whatever they're called?" George was half-joking.

"Just because it isn't _capable_ of killing you, doesn't mean it doesn't _want to_." Shifty had another laugh at George's look of surprise. After the laugh died away, it was replaced with a downcast sigh. "Em' and I were supposed to go hunting this fall. He hadn't gone in years, always too busy. He'd probably dash off on some oddball mission no one ordered him to do; trying to get back to the old days."

"Yep. That was Uncle Em'." Tommy agreed. "I think I got to go hunting with him once, but that was, seventeen years ago. Maybe it's me, but I still can't see what his obsession was for."

"They made him retire for a reason." George said. "Emory wouldn't quit because he was such a stubborn horse's ass, and the G.S.P.B. is a young man's game. Of the handful of Humans we've fed into that meat grinder, _none_ of them lasted past the age of thirty; before they mentally burned out, medically flunked out, or were buried somewhere. Not even Emory. Maybe he thought he'd be the first to buck the trend, I don't know."

"Damn shame he destroyed his family trying." Shifty was deadpan.

"Well, we have intermittent contact with Mary, Greg, and Denise." Tommy looked for something positive. "Denise is hardest to get ahold of since she doesn't live on Earth anymore, but still picks up when we call. And I _suppose_ maybe, maybe, no news from Lois is good news. I remember that last fight. It made alley cats look prissy."

"But Jeff's doing okay at least?"

"Jeff is doing, as well as, actually a lot better than we could have hoped. He's had some slip-ups, one time when he and I butted heads; that stubborn horse's ass you mentioned of his Dad. But he's learning, fast. Works really well with Naota."

"That's really good to hear. Now, about Naota. What's his story? Anything besides the file Jeff is keeping in his safe?"

"Not in the technical sense, no." Tommy said. "He's a damn smart kid, you should see him work in the shop. For a city slicker, he's adapted to our flea-bitten mountain life with no problem; riding dirt bikes, shooting, being a trailer park terrorist like Rig. Haven't gotten him to take up dip though. Yet."

"Don't you dare start him on any bad habits!" George ordered.

"Well, maybe dip ain't his thing. Maybe Naota's really a Marlboro Man?" Shifty posed the thought.

"Same for you! Don't be givin' him smokes, I mean if Shaufner."

"Killjoy. Oh, and the elephant in the room. Or, should I say…" A Vespa's engine roared as it made a low pass. "…the _Alien_ in the room. Even before I left there was a warrant for her arrest; with a nice bounty attached. The Cowboys must be drooling like mad over that number."

"She has been reclassified as a low-priority target since her arrival; a command decision, not mine. She's actually been quite helpful around the place, when the mood strikes her and she's not napping on top of the old tire pile like some pink-furred cat." George peeked around the blinds to watch Haruko doing handstands on the seat of a careening Vespa. "But if, excuse me, when things around here turn from words to bullets, she will have overstayed her welcome. Apprehension, so says the G.S.P.B., is preferred, but…"

"I'm gonna have to help Jeff kill Miss Haruhara, aren't I?"

"Did I mention we're glad you're home?"

. . .

 _*Get your motor runnin'…Head out on the highway!_

 _Lookin' for adventure, and whatever comes our way…_

 _Yeah Darlin', go'n make it happen!_

 _Take the world in a love embrace!_

 _Fire all of your guns at once, and explode into space!_

The richness of a hazy summer evening filled her head, up her nose with heavy earthiness, down to make full her lungs, and belted back out again as joyous song. After a month tethered to G&R and Naota's house, Haruko was mobile again. She was _FREE._

 _Like a true Nature's Child, we were born, born to be wild…_

 _We can climb so high…_

 _I NEVER wanna die!_

 _Born to be Wild! Born to be Wild!*_

She cruised down the mountainside into Osceola Mills and headed for the town's center. While she waited for the light her initial excitement wore off. Thoughts her subconscious had been working on in the background slid forward to priority. Heaviest was the one she had fretted over the most: her last meeting with The Man in Black. A week later she still had not made up her mind, as the agony of decision weighed on her heart. While she had made every oath, swear, pledge and vow possible, she'd also spent two grueling years training and now six desperate years more chasing a shadow as old as the Universe itself. The reprieve of G&R had been welcome, but wasn't enough to keep the patient claws of Entropy off her neck. As much as she cherished her freedom and the Liberty that came with it, the accompanying hazards and harshness made giving in a tempting option. Wasn't that what it was all about, after all, between The Red Star of The Solar Federation, and the Galactic Republic? Choosing between Smothering Security, or Dangerous Freedom.

Now she turned left onto Curtin Street, with no destination in mind. Puttering along, she drew upon the neon lights of Grizzly's, and the smell of Old Grizz's BBQ pit where, around the bar's corner and just off the side street, a vegetarian horror smoldered. In front, on the corner front door steps, lounged in a patio chair with a stack of newspapers at ready and Old Fashioned glass in hand…was The Man in Black. And as his smile showed, he had been expecting her.

The Vespa rocked as she pulled the clutch and brake, stopping in front of his table. He said nothing, only watched patiently as she shut down and dropped the kickstand. Her heart was fluttering in her mouth, and she was sure she'd throw it up if she talked. So she leaned against her Vepsa, crossed her arms and looked down at him with a life's worth of contempt.

"I told you I'd find you when you were ready." He folded and put away the paper. "It's been a week, impressive. Most people come back on bended knee in a day or two."

"I'm not most people."

" _That_ , I will drink to!" And he did with lip smacking gusto. "I don't believe it proper to hold business on the sidewalk. Inside is a booth with your name on it." He stood, mounted the steps and opened the door, bowing slightly at the waist to usher her in. "Won't you join me for a drink? My treat."

"Alright. One free drink couldn't hurt." She agreed and took the steps in two strides. Settled in a corner booth, hidden behind a curtain of hazy grey smoke, he sat with his back to the wall. That way ensured he could see the entire bar, all of its patrons, and the door. It also forced her to look solely at him as he smiled ever wider and said:

"Tell me Miss Haruhara. Tell me everything on your mind, in your heart."

. . .

Piddles: The Wonder Dog had been on one of his many paths in, through, and around Osceola Mills. It had been a slow day though. Slow enough he had time for a swim at the community pool; much to the amusement of the kids, and exasperation of the lifeguards. Cooled, he was back on patrol, headed north on Curtin Street. Mostly because it was part of the route, but also to get a whiff of Ole Grizz's BBQ; and maybe, just maybe, beg a few scraps of meat. What Piddles: The Wonder Dog had not counted on was the second smell, overpowering the BBQ. A stench that curdled his stomach, the evil reek of a Man in Black. Blocks away he smelled him before he saw him sitting on the steps. A yellow Vespa, and he knew well the smell of its rider, approached and stopped. Then Haruko and The Man went inside Grizzly's together, taking their smells, and conversation, with them.

Piddles: The Wonder Dog _had_ to hear this conversation. He bounded across the road and up to the door. It only swung outwards so he couldn't push to get in, and the handle was too close to the glass to get a paw or muzzle under. Around the side, where fogged glass screened view of the bar's insides, Piddles: The Wonder Dog stood with forepaws on the brick wall and snuffed the air, straining to at least determine where the pair were sitting. Certain they were in the back corner booth, he had a location.

From previous attempts to enter the establishment, he knew the kitchen door was fiercely guarded by the Mrs. Grizzly; and her broom. Piddles: The Wonder Dog hated that broom. Around back, past the roaring BBQ pit fires, was the stack of logs that fed the fires; right against the wall. Using the convenient stacked steps, Piddles: The Wonder Dog had mounted the roof and headed for a small second story balcony. Its door lead to the bar's second story storerooms, and had a balcony door that swung inward. And to his delight, it had been left carelessly ajar. It was too risky to venture downstairs. There were too many people in the noisy, nose overwhelming kitchen; and of course that dratted broom. Piddles: The Wonder Dog had been swatted with it one too many times to risk it.

The smell of Haruko and reek of Man in Black were present again, rising up from a register in the floor. Hooking a claw onto the lever, he opened the small register to have a top-down view of the corner table. Words were too quiet and muddled in the background noise to make out. The bar was packed on a Friday evening, the dishes and pots of the kitchen were clanging, a jukebox thumped, and glasses clanked. The mish-mash of food, alcohol, and dozens of other human smells, not to mention the cigarettes, did Piddles: The Wonder Dog's nose no favors. The best he could do was watch as closely as he could.

Haruko was animated in her speech. She spoke vividly with her body movement, making many gestures and waves with her hands. What it all meant was lost to Piddles: The Wonder Dog. Commands and gestures from Rig, he understood by intimately, but Haruko's physical language was foreign. The Man was even harder to guess at. He seemed perfectly relaxed, seated deeply on his bench cushion. His fedora's wide brim covered his face from observation up above, so no emotions were observable.

They spoke for one drink. Then Haruko stood, The Man following suit a little slower. Both drew themselves to full height and squared off. This posture Piddles: The Wonder Dog knew, it was two dogs sizing the other up, to see if the other was friendly or hostile, and if hostile, if they could take the other in a fight. The Man thrust out his hand. Haruko took it in a fierce grip, both of their knuckles bone white, and shook once. Then she snapped about on her heel and departed. He returned to his seat and sat quietly for a moment. A waitress passed by. The Man in Black ordered another bourbon. Piddles: The Wonder Dog decided he had seen enough.

. . .

Dinnertime had come to the Nandaba house, but Haruko's chair was empty. Kamon had returned from State College and was grumbling about American media obsession with college football. He could not believe how every other piece of news was deliberately ignored in favor of a quarterback's workout regime or a running back's 40 yard sprint time.

"The President could come out on national TV and say to the People 'Yes, it's true. Area 51 is real, aliens are living among us, and we're building a base on Mars to match the one we've got on the Moon' and all my boss will be interested in is if Penn State will pick up the up and coming wide receiver from Montana."

"It's about priorities, I guess." Naota worked in between bites of Hi-Way. "Y'know, what's more important to you, or your boss the head editor, I suppose."

"Kamon, you've never grasped the _depth_ and cultural _importance_ of sports." Shigekuni reminded. "And especially here. You may have gotten away from it in Japan, but here? Yankees are obsessed, fascinated, and have seasons set up so it never ends."

"Wouldn't they, even you, get tired of it?" Naota asked, having heard different iterations of this conversation before. He knew his lines. "If you're just bombarded with sports coverage sunup to sundown, and ESPN and Sports Center is running twenty four hours a day, seven days a week, wouldn't it all just start blending together?"

"You'd think that." Shigekuni shook his head. "But you are indeed your father's son. Sports, and baseball in particular…" He put down his pizza. Naota and Kamon braced from another lecture. "Is about their elegance, the spirit of competition, a shared history, coming together of the community in a group experience."

"And to drink beer." Naota reminded. Shigekuni had been appalled to learn that facet of the Sunday baseball league, of which Naota had been unwittingly signed up for in June. Rig and Tommy played in the league too, and it was less of rigorous, serious play, and more of a few hours relaxation with a few coolers of beer on hand in the dugouts; and some baseball just happened to be played in the meantime.

"That is a _completely separate_ discussion."

"You already know my take, but I'll say it again to get it out of the way." Kamon had his part memorized. "The majority of people's infatuation with sports is living their lives vicariously through someone else. It's a fantasy, it's role play, wish fulfillment. And before this conversation goes south, please excuse me." Kamon got up and went onto the back porch. Shigekuni wasn't ready to let him go.

"Don't you 'excuse me', me! Get back in here and explain yourself. Wish-fulfillment?! Bah!"

"Gramps, for one time, can we please let this go?"

"What?! And abandon the field, my principles?! You go get your father and tell him to face _his_ father."

"Uh…sure…I'll see what I can do." He joined Kamon on the back porch. "Dad, Gramps is being himself and wants to argue about baseball."

"I suspected as much. Hey, sit down and talk with your old man for a bit."

"Alright…" He sensed this was important. Kamon hadn't cracked a lewd remark and was using his fatherly voice. "What's up?"

"We've been here since June, and now it's near the end of August. I'm wanting to know if you are happy living here?"

"Yeah, I am. It was a little intimidating at first, a new place, people, really having to remember all my English lessons from school, the culture shock threw me off for at least two weeks. But I'm not mad at you for moving us, if that's what you're really asking."

"No, that wasn't what I was really asking. I spoke with Mister Carson, George, before dinner. He's in many social circles in town, and is saying there are a lot of upset people right now; with everything that has happened. The explosions and fires, all those people that were poisoned, the police raids, the terrible speeches the city governments have been giving…anyway. He is worried someone, who he cannot guess, is going to do something foolish, and that might start a fight; and we should be aware of it and think seriously about preparing for such an event."

"Well, no one ever told us it would be easy living. It's all concerning, sure. But nothing to get excited over."

"What about the Medical Mechanica operation at Roman's?"

"You got me there." Naota could not deny the unease with knowing what was burrowing in and around Roman's just an hour up the road. "I think of it this way. Medical Mechanica is a galaxy wide threat. Us moving, again, will only buy time. But we will never get away from ultimately having to deal with them. Even changing planets, if such a thing is possible, probably isn't enough. So while I'm not sure how, but I think it's best to make a stand here. I mean, have you seen how many guns are in this country? If M-M wants to invade even just Pennsylvania alone, they'll need a lot of body bags."

"It'll be strange to hear, but I'm very glad you are happy here; and similarly glad you don't want to leave. I asked a lot of you to come here and leave your friends, school, everything, and start over. That some things, like Haruko and M-M followed, is unfortunate, but you've handled it with the patience of a monk…and for that, I'm incredibly proud."

"Oh, wow. I, hadn't really thought much of it, y'know. 'S'no big deal. But, that means a lot, it really does. Thank you."

"You're welcome. Now…the _other_ reason I wanted to talk to you." Naota did not like the look in his father's eyes. The grown-up, paternal tone was melting off, it had been a well-crafted mask.

"Yesss…?"

"It's about you, and Haruko…and what you two are doing while I'm not here…"

"Oh God. Not this."

"Now I know, that you are a young man, and you are, as Gramps put it, your father's son. And do I ever know what that entails."

"Dad, what're you doing? We were having a moment."

"Look at things from my viewpoint. I'm thinking: Gramps can sleep through a typhoon. Naota has no interference from me, as I am in Penn State, and he has Haruko all to himself every night. And, I know he's of that age, the same age I began to develop tastes more, heh-heh, adult, in nature…"

"Ohhhh…whyyyy…this isn't happening…Dad, please…"

"Well, what exactly DO you two do every night? I'm not asking for details or blow-by-blow. You and I never had 'The Talk', and I just want to make sure you're…"

"If I could get a bot to come through my head _right now_ I would do it, I swear; and don't think I wouldn't."

"I'm just trying to connect with you my boy, and learn more about you and the people you interact with. We're still having our moment, this's part of male bonding."

"N-no. No it's not. This's just you being weird."

"Like I said, I'm not asking for the real nitty-gritty; unless you want to share, or have questions. That's what I'm here for. I just want to make sure that _whatever_ it is you two do in the dark privacy of your room, is safe and consensual, and..."

"Nothing, we do nothing. There, is, is that good enough? We, we sleep, okay? That's it."

"Look, I know you're mature for your age, and there are many parts and aspects to maturity. You're not in any trouble, I'm not going to yell at you, and I'm not going to tell anyone else; and I won't embarrass you in front of Haurko. I can be totally discreet."

"Y'know what? I'm gonna go inside and pick a fight with Gramps about baseball. It sounds a lot less awkward than this conversation."

"Now, hang on. Let's, let's not get crazy here…"

"Hey, Gramps!"

"Yeah?!"

"Naota, please don't."

"Dad says baseball is overrated?!"

"He said WHAT?!"

"Son, what have you done?"

"You gonna ask me anymore weird questions about Haruko?"

"Okay, you win this round." Kamon conceded with an amused smile. "Well played. Okay, I suppose there's no more avoiding it. Let's go inside and argue with your grandfather."

. . .

The briefings were over. Troopers were receiving their own individual assignments in their assault stacks, which would be collected and assigned to Task Forces. Cole announcing he was in charge had raised a few eyebrows, but no one had protested. Only one thing had been strange and it came from The Man. He had passed out several photographs of the same person, a young teenager that appeared Japanese in ethnicity. He instructed each team to look for the photo's subject, and when queried for 'Dead or Alive' he said:

"Dead? That's aiming a little low, isn't it? I want it to be like he never even existed."

. . .

Haruko finally returned to Naota's house at eleven, just as he returned from Rig's. He found her standing at the top of the stairs, a cloth bundle in her hands.

"Where did you disappear off to? We waited a good hour for you, but you never showed; we even played Foo Fighters. You missed out." He passed her onto his room and glanced at the bundle along the way. "What's that?"

"I needed a break; to think. _Anyway_ , this's something you need to see."

"Ohhhh…kay. Bring it in then." She followed and closed and locked the door behind her. She then knelt and unrolled the bundle, showing a small pile of metal. "The contents of the scrap bin?"

"In a way. Remember those parts I dropped that were out of spec?" She waved her hands over the metal. "That's what these are."

"Drinking fountain parts, yeah. And ones you, now I see, broke on purpose. Are you still hung up on this?"

"Give me one minute of your time."

"Don't waste it." Haruko began fitting parts together, several small pieces, pins, plates and springs. These guts fitted into the drilled out tube steel sections they had made, the long tube at the front, the shorter tube under it, and a piston like rod and spring inside it. Finally, after fifty six seconds, Haruko tightened the last screw, inserted a magazine, racked back the bolt and placed at his feet what they had built _hundreds_ of in the past week. It was without doubt a rifle.

The rifle was an amalgamation of several other designs. It had a fixed stock resembling that of a Galil. A squared and rectangular receiver of a Thompson submachinegun, the magazine release, grip, and trigger of an AK-47, while the magazine itself was the large box of a BAR. A massive bolt charging handle that would look at home on an M1919. The long-stroke gas piston and op-rod of an M1 Garand, and the unsophisticated sights of a Sten submachinegun. It currently lacked a fore stock or grip, but the front of the lower receiver had been cut as to encourage its use as a handhold. And, now that Naota looked at it, he realized why they had cut key slots and installed two tabs at the end of the barrel: it was so a bayonet could be affixed. A fitting exclamation point to the business end of a 0.30 caliber rifled eye.

"So, by my math, we've built about five hundred of these things." Haruko looked between a drumbstruck Naota and the rifle. "You gonna pick it up, say something, sit there, what?" The rifle was heavy, about ten pounds. He threw it to his shoulder, it balanced fairly well. The sights were crude but easily visible and easy to aim. The skeleton stock wasn't atrocious. The magazine, for being a rectangular slab-sided box, looked like it could hold twenty rounds of 7.62x39mm; AK-47 ammunition. It fired from an open bolt, held open by spring pressure pushing on a dropping sear, which made for a rough trigger pull. There was no safety or selector lever; fully automatic only. The bolt handle and ejection port were far enough forward a left handed shooter could operate it. For a moment, between flashes of confusion, surprise, and indignation, he also felt pride having built a cheap, no frills gun that looked like it would continue loyally firing even after running it over with a truck.

"I don't know what we should do. We're in a box here." He turned the rifle over in his hands, thinking. "With it looking like the cops and city work for Medical Mechanica, I can't really call them. The I.I.B. I have no idea how to contact…the A.T.F. maybe? We could try them? But…I'm sure there _has to be_ , there's no good alternative, there _has to be some_ good reason for this. Right? Maybe it would be best if we talk to Rig about this first thing tomorrow; we'll have to come up with…"

"Hold up, hold up, _hold_ …and back right the hell, up." Haruko even raised her hands to order his halt. "Just who is this 'we' you keep bringing up? I'll be real. This rekindling of our dysfunctional dynamic, I'll freely admit it's messed up, and it's not me, it's you, was pure circumstance. My baby's purrin' like a Mack truck again. I'm gonna use tomorrow and Sunday to scare up a spare Gundam Module somewhere in this town, but find it or not, on Monday I'm outta here. So you can figure out what to do about your neighbors, I'm no longer in the picture. Do you get that?"

"No, frankly I don't. Why bring this up at all? What do you care, you're going to be gone in a few days, so you say."

"Had to be done. Apparently I'm the only one around here smart enough to see, and call, the bullshit for what it is."

"I really don't believe that. It sounds like another opportunity for you to prove to everyone how smart you are and rub our noses in it. I know it's nothing to do with any form of morals, principles. It's just you and your self-importance, doing what you do best, making yourself feel better and looking out for you yourself alone."

"Easy for you to say. You've got family, friends, a home, this happy, cushy life you're wasting by just schelping through. I only look out for me because I'm all I have left."

"Ideas don't cost anything, there's no store you have to go to. You too could live a happy cushy life if you paid attention to how it's done. I realize I must correct myself. You did have your rant about empathy, how the capacity to feel anything above basic _greed_ is a sin; so I do suppose you have ONE thing to stand on. But man, that's a foundation of sand if I've ever seen one."

"And correct yourself _again_ , Monsieur Au Contraire." She had one hand on the doorknob. "I do have one thing, a principle you would call it. Consistency. You probably think of me as some manipulative, parasite eating my brain, crazed harpy…but at least my story is consistent. Am I not the same, exact same, Haruko you met four years ago? Your friend, Rig, and his merry band of misfits, weave a story weaker than unspiced curry. They may pretend to be a bunch of toothless cousin fuckers, but _honestly_ , are you **_BLIND_**?! They can take apart, reverse engineer Medical Mechanica robots, have remotely hacked into computers like they open the newspaper, just happen to have a device that by passes a phone's security and makes perfect copy of its contents, regardless of OS, version, or brand, and…have you forgotten the several thousand sets of steel knuckles we built? Dollars to fuckin' doughnuts those _paperweights_ are still in the shop somewhere, right now. And you still obviously haven't asked yourself why they are all so cool with knowing there's a Medical Mechanica garrison an hour up the damn road?!"

"Well maybe for once it was a welcome change that someone actually wanted to help me, and 'till now have asked for _nothing_ in return." To say he was upset, pissed, peeved, or even beside himself, would underscore Naota's blowing past his boiling point. "I've finally got something good going, I was half a world away, and actually making some progress. But you show up, and instead of being grateful, have to take a big, steaming crap over all of it! You just had to bring this up, didn't you? This rifle? Couldn't leave me be, happy and ignorant. Nope, since your life is a jaded, moral-less, suck fest where no one's allowed to feel compassion or think of how others feel, you can't bear the shame of being the only well of unhappiness in the room, in the galaxy, so you've gotta drag everyone down to your level because misery loves company; and that's the only way anyone will give a flying fuck about your existence and be willing to suffer the agony of being anywhere near you."

He ran himself out of breath and waited for rebuttal. Naota actually felt like he was getting rather good at this, ripping into Haruko. It wasn't something to be proud of by any measure, but the schadenfreude soma was too strong to pass up. And then a twinge inside his head, and a surge of panic. Had he overdone it again? How long did he have, would he at least make it outside? The feeling passed, just a migraine from the stress; probably.

 _Clink._

The chain link on Haruko's wrist moved once. Only once, and just enough for it to rise perfectly horizontal, then fall back down. But he knew it was enough for her. Seeing his reddened vision cooling back to normal, he had never seen her look so genuinely sad. His last tirade had slapped her face blank, something told him he'd hit an inner chord that strummed in a way that all she could do was stare. It was the empty face of someone so pulled down with the weight of their world, they couldn't even form an expression, their depression, memories and life sucking the energy needed to even frown or form a tear. For once he'd finally nailed her dead on the X-ring and gotten her to shut up, and felt a right bastard doing so.

"Hear that?" She quickly looked at her wrist and back to him. "I'm sorry but, I gotta go." She picked up her guitar, slung it over her shoulder, leaving all of her things still strewn about the room, and departed without fanfare. As the Vespa's motor faded away, he slumped onto his bed. He'd shouted all of his energy out.

"Oh…fuck. What have I done?"

. . .

"Y'all stayin' here? It's getting late." At two in the morning, Tommy was ready to go home. Rita, George, and Jeff already had retired for the night. Josh, Johnny, Mike and Canti were readying the Industrial Bot for its Saturday morning walk-about tests. Shifty had gone home earlier, exhausted from travelling.

"We don't need sleep, we need answers!" Mike declared as they put the Industrial back together.

"Mostly it's just we're on a roll, so no point in stopping." Johnny elaborated. "But do you think we can count this as overtime?"

"I don't see why not. You'll have to ask George." Tommy shifted a definitive answer. "What about job satisfaction?"

"Job satisfaction don't pay rent."

"True. Well…I've got nothing going on tomorrow. Need an extra hand?"

"If you wanna stay, sure. Do you think Shifty would be willing to come in?" Mike tapped one of the tie rods in the Idustrial's left shoulder. "It's one of the last parts to fix, but he's the only one of us good enough with a welder to get it right."

"Rig hit that shoulder harder than he realized." Tommy inspected the divoted and cracked piece of metal. "I'd hate to wake him up, but I'm not sure what time zone Shifty is in, or what his travels have done to his circadian rhythm. I think the Fero System's main planet has a thirty six hour day? He could be wide awake right now." Tommy made the call and found Shifty was indeed up and about. He agreed to be there in a few minutes, not wanting to wait until morning to see two M-M bots in working order.

The G&R crew continued to work into the morning, unaware of forces moving in the shadows just outside the light of the shop's outdoor flood lamp. Dive-by patrols and attempts at binocular observation from a distance, had established a general pattern of who worked at G&R and when. That evening however, the police had recalled all of their observation squads on stakeout, all hands on deck were required. This meant the State Patrol did not know that for the first Friday night in a month, G&R Fabrication and Cranes was not empty, but fully staffed.

. . .

Atomsk had been fully rested for days by that point, but didn't quite know what to do or where to go next. A few days lounging about would do no harm, it wasn't as if he had a job to report in to, or rent to pay. But now he knew he couldn't stay. The N.O. had shifted, the energy flow that permeated the universe as an invisible web, and one of its infinite strings was fluttering. Atomsk felt the anomaly as we feel a pressure drop before a thunderstorm. N.O., like all energy, is in a constant state of change, or desiring to change; never created or destroyed, only transferred in varying ebbs and flows. Species older than Earth, such as Haruko's, had evolved rudimentary perception of N.O. and basic manipulation. Those races older still, before the first Temple of Syrinx was constructed, lived in it, swam the N.O. flows and used them to effortlessly travel the vast universe at a whim.

N.O. is unique that it carries markers, trace signatures of where it had been, and the actions and work done using it. A beginning reader could gain rough pictures of the markers: motion, entropy, heat, and light, and so forth. Advanced readers like Atomsk delve deeper: type and source of actions, differentiate between heat types and sources, determine growth, birth or the final release of death, and even events surrounding the N.O. as it was transferred. While some signatures didn't have a specific deed attached, trial and error reading over the millennia gave good indications. Atomsk readily recognized the N.O. flowing around King Coal and Central Pennsylvania was drenched in the marks of War. It was time to leave.

. . .

At four in the morning Jerry unlocked the door to Hi-Way Pizza. Daily fresh pizzas called for extensive prep time, warming up the ovens, setting out all the newly delivered ingredients, and bracing for the long line always gathered out the door by eleven o'clock. It wasn't the easiest way to run the place, but people kept coming back. On happenstance, Jerry looked out the front window and across his brand new parking lot, and beheld a blood-chilling sight. First a State Patrol cruiser, one of the Dodge Pursuits, drove by as a forward scout; that wasn't what had Jerry scared. It was ten minutes later, when three Cougar model MRAP trucks rumbled by, each with a gunner manning their rooftop hatch turrets. Jerry considered himself no expert, but even he recognized an M240 machinegun when he saw one. Four more cars followed, two SUV's, two cruisers, then last a large prisoner transfer van. Jerry, a longtime family friend of the Carsons atop the hill between Osceola Mills and Philipsburg, had been asked to watch for this exact scenario. He fumbled with the kitchen's phone, hoping someone would be awake to answer.

"G&R Fabrication and…" Tommy Carson answered and sounded like he'd been up all night. Jerry didn't wait for the salutation to end.

"Tommy! Oh thank God! Three of those tank trucks just rolled by, and five other State Patrol cars. They've got machine guns on the roofs of those MRAP things, and I think they're headed your way!"

"…So be it. Jerry, start the Phone Tree. God Bless you, and Godspeed. I'll see you on the other side." Tommy hung up. Jerry put all pizza prep aside and began dialing a set of memorized numbers as fast as he could.

. . .

The lights came on at four in the morning and my bed was damn near flipped over as Rita shook me awake.

"Get up! Get up! Damn you Jeffrey Raymond Carson, GET UP!"

"What, goddamn-fuckin'-all-damned-to-Hell **_WHAT_** is wrong with you woman?! Have you lost your mind?!" I don't wake up well at 0400, okay? Be honest, most of us don't.

"The State Patrol is on its way! Tommy said you need to get the Nandaba's and bring them to the shop."

"Oh, well… ** _SHIT_**." There was no time to get dressed, time to open my safe or throw on any armor. Enough to grab a shirt, my revolver with just the six shots in its cylinder and no spares, the spare Nandaba house key, and hop-run my boots on before sprinting up the road. Everyone from the shop was moving vehicles, equipment and doing their own practiced parts, as was I.

Haruko's Vespa was missing from their driveway, which I didn't have time to wonder at as odd. There would be no time to knock, wait for them to wake up, come downstairs, explain what was going on, then walk leisurely back to the shop. I had _at most_ five minutes. By the Gods I didn't flub unlocking the door and made my way upstairs, first to Kamon's room. We had given and taught him and Shigekuni both a Ruger P90 for just such an occasion. Kamon had also requested his own Walther P38 and was beside himself when he got to fire it for the first time. Different strokes. He and Shigekuni I woke up with little issue and they hurriedly dressed as I went to get Naota. Three minutes, and counting…

. . .

Naota awoke by being spun out of the lower bunk, dragged out with the covers and landed flat on his back. Looking up, he saw Rig standing over him in his motocross boots, underwear, a wife-beater, and his revolver in hand. Understandably, Naota's first words were:

"What in the fuck is going on?!" Rig hooked him under the shoulder and hauled him straight to his feet. "Why are you in my house, with a GUN?!"

"Medical Mechanica has sent the State Police to kill you, your family, and me and mine. I am taking you somewhere more defensible." With a vice lock on his arm, Rig steered Naota onto the upper landing. Kamon and Gramps were already awake and half dressed. They were also armed, Shigekuni with a Ruger P90, and Kamon with a Walther P38; both with spare magazines in their back pockets. Before he could process that, he was thrust a black vest that looked like a basic version of Rig's plate carrier armor.

"Put that on now. It's Type IIIA, sorry for no rifle plates, but it'll do." Rig had opened the hall closet, stood on the lowest shelf, and pushed up the closet ceiling to reveal a cavity. From this he pulled down the first black vest, then three more, putting the last one on himself. "Follow me, now." They were halfway down the stairs when the phone rang.

"Should I?" Kamon began to ask. Rig elbowed him out of the way and answered. He held the phone away from his ear so they all could hear.

"Defend at location. Scouts headed your way. Return to shop as deemed prudent and capable." Naota recognized the voice, of all people's, as Rita's. Rig hung up immediately and turned to them; pointing back to their rooms.

"Back upstairs. Now." He followed them and turned to the full length mirror hanging on the wall. With a series of tugs and crumbling of drywall, Rig pulled the mirror off the wall and the sheetrock panel behind it, revealing another cavity. This one housed a Remington Versa Max shotgun, two belts of shells, and eight loose ones lined up on a beam. Rig donned the belts over his shoulders, then loaded the shotgun and released its semiautomatic bolt with a metallic snap that rattled the otherwise silent house.

"Rig, what the hell is going on? This, this isn't funny anymore." Rig extended Naota his GP100, holding it by the barrel to offer its grip. "I, I don't want that! I want to know…"

"People are coming to **kill you.** Take this. I will need it back." With a trembling hand, he took the revolver, nearly dropping it but remembering to keep his finger off the trigger.

"Dad, what's going on? Why aren't you and Gramps freaking out?"

"Oh, we are freaking out, don't let me be misunderstood." Kamon admitted, stiffening his back to stand taller. "I'm not sure what's going on, but we need to trust Jeff and do exactly as he says. There are some bad people that want us dead, and he's going to help us."

"But how do you know that? Do you have any idea what I've got in my room, what he's had Haruko and I building?! For fuck's sake, we've been making…"

" ** _Naota. SHUT UP._** " Rig was in his room as it overlooked the driveway, and was peering through the blinds. "You are panicking and it is not helping. Control your breathing, count to ten, I don't care, but get it together. Ahhhh…shit." He walked over to address them. "Here's what's up. The State Patrol has this house still belonging to George, so they think he, Rita, Tommy, or I, or all of us, might live here. Or, they might know about you living here, I dunno. Either way, they are coming to kill anyone they find here, and then raid my house and the shop. You are going to have to fight for your lives. You will probably have to use those guns, you will probably have to kill someone. I make no guarantees, but your best chance is to do exactly what I say, when I say it. If I am killed, make your way to the shop. If I am wounded and cannot move under my own power, LEAVE ME BEHIND, and get to the shop. AM I CLEAR?" They all nodded yes.

"Good. Kamon, Naota, take position in the bathroom, its walls are armored. Shigekuni, post at your door and cover me, I'll be right here." Rig shut off all lights and stood in the deepest shadow at the top of the stairs. From there he could see both the living room and kitchen, and anyone coming from the front or back doors. "If anyone gets past me, shoot them until they stop moving. Not once, not twice, until they stop moving or you run out of ammo. If you run out, beat them to death. Then exit out the back door, then along the ridge to the shop. Repeat that back to me." Each did and Rig seemed satisfied. Ten seconds groaned by, and then gravel in the driveway crunched.

"Any last thoughts, words?" Rig's whisper seemed a shout to Naota. "Now's the time."

"I love you both, weird and goofy as you are." Shigekuni said. "We disagree, but you're my boys."

"Same here, I love you too Dad." Kamon and Naota both said. "Give your old man a hug."

"Dad, why us?" Naota asked as he and Kamon embraced, possibly for the last time. "Why me?"

"Some questions have no answers, bad or good. Just none at all. I'm sorry."

"Don't be, it's not your fault, I just wondered. Hey…hey Rig?"

"Hmm?"

"You're, you're a good friend."

"Hold onto that, don't thank me yet. You're a good friend though, no doubt. Okay, we squared away?"

"I'd just like to say for the record, that the American Navy, Army, Army Air Force, and Marine Corps, all tried to kill me, and none of 'em succeeded. So I'll be dammned and dishonored if some po-dunk cop takes me down."

"Sergeant Nandaba, I admire and envy your spirit." Rig said, then waved his hand down at the floor. "Okay, dead quiet." With that order, the house turned tomb dead silent. Naota could hear each pump of blood through his ears as he crouched behind the toilet. Actually not a bad spot, he conceded, as his nerves were conspiring to make him vomit. He looked where he'd never expected for reassurance in a situation like this. Kamon had his Walter P38 up and ready, finger safely off the trigger. In his waistband at his back, was tucked a Ruger P90, spare magazines for both in his back pockets. Kamon was determined and ready to go down fighting.

'Well, if your anime watching and manga reading otaku Dad isn't freaking, what business do you have being a quivering wimp?' Several steadying breaths calmed him a little, so he could settle in for a seeming eternity of waiting. Then he nearly shit his pants as the front door creaked open.

. . .

The plan was to send a four man squad to the Carson's secondary residence. The rest of the column was ten minutes behind them. Armed with suppressed UMP-45's, the four men would scout the convoy's route to make sure all was clear, then proceed to the Carson house; all residents were deemed hostile. After completing this objective, the squad would move to the Carson's main residence and shop, setting up an overlook to spot any waiting ambushes. Then the main force would arrive and assault on the house and shop.

At 0400, previous drive-by patrols had determined all occupants would be asleep. So the squad leader ordered the front door first approached with a lock pick gun. To their amazement, the front door swung open at the touch. One by one, they entered, ideally hoping to dispatch each occupant while still sleeping in their beds. They had no flashlights or lasers attached to their guns, just a set of night vision goggles; there was no point in risking waking someone up with an errant laser beam or flash of light. Ahead and to the left were the stairs. All was proceeding according to plan, but they forgot to factor for Tyson's Law. As they rounded to the stairs, the Hit Squad took a heavy punch in the mouth.

Rig had positioned himself so only the shotgun, his trigger hand, part of that arm, and a sliver of his head were exposed; all still in deep shadow. He crouched and braced his left hand against the wall to use it as the shotgun's rest. Set in his stance, he froze, left thumb on a button embedded in the fore stock. The front door creaked open and the floorboards squeaked under heavy boots. The first officer mounted the stairs, the second a step behind, the third at the corner, the fourth just inside the door. At this moment Rig pressed the button and took up the triggers' slack. A pulsing strobe flashlight affixed to the shotgun lit the stairwell in a seizure inducing display, blinding the officer's night vision in retina searing whiteout. Then the shotgun boomed.

If the stairwell had been bright with the strobe, it was high noon when the muzzle flash filled the confined space. Nine pellets of 00 buckshot greeted the first officer. Two struck his UMP-45, one on the receiver, the other on the ejection port, jamming the gun. One hit his body armor with no effect. Three impacted his left arm at the joint, ripping off a baseball sized chunk of muscle and rupturing the artery in his armpit. Three hit his head, one through the left jaw that wrenched half his face 90-degrees sideways, and the other two his goggles. These sent shards of plastic, glass and the two lead pellets, into his eyes and frontal lobe; all killing him instantly. He fell backwards onto the second man, dropping both onto the landing at the foot of the stairs. Second Man was sprayed with First Man's blood and had the wind knocked out of him.

The Third Man rounded the corner and was blinded in turn. Again the Remington thundered, separating the man's left forearm from his elbow. In debilitating shock, the man did not cry out, only slowly slumping to the floor. One hand wriggled on the floor as its severed nerves carried out their last signals, and the other locked onto his gun's grip. By now the Second Man was back up to a crouch and fired, low, ripping the stairs to shreds. A third flash and concussive blast shook the house and Rig put 00 into the man's shoulder, left arm, femoral artery, and split his kneecap. The impact jerked the man's aim sideways and his last shots chewed through the stairwell's wall, out the landing wall, and into the armor around the bathroom. Four dull _Per-Klunks_ sounded next to Naota's head and a chip of drywall flaked off; a round had nearly made it through.

Having seen the first three walk into a narrow valley of fire and lead poisoning, the Last Man blind fired around the corner. His rounds were the right height, but too far to the left. Rig sprang back from his post, putting himself in the corner with Naota directly opposite the wall behind him, and turned the shotgun's flashlight off. Then, he seemed content to wait.

Up the stairs came the Fourth Man, boots thumping on the shot-up steps, equipment creaking, and bloodthirsty breath panting. He was gonna kill ALL the rotten bastards, and as revenge, he was gonna do it slow…He swept his corners, but was looking about chest high, not down, until too late. Rig was practically at his feet, on his back, curled so his shotgun was between his knees. If the Remington had been fitted with a bayonet, Rig could have impaled the officer. Instead, with a contained _BAH-WHUMP_ , Rig gut shot him. The buckshot pattern decimated the Fourth Man's liver, stomach, and small intestine before turning his kidneys into an Englishman's breakfast and shattering his spine. Exiting matter and night-black blood fanned across the wall and repainted Naota's bedroom door. The disemboweled officer teetered backwards, collapsing against the wall, then sliding down to sit on the floor, leaving a grisly streak.

"…Ev, everyone okay? SoundOHFUCK!" _B-THOOOOOOM!_ Even with his guts blown, the Fourth Man had tried to raise his UMP-45 one handed for a last try. Rig fired again, the shotgun jerking as he did not have a firm grip. Instead of hitting center of mass, Rig hit high. Naota couldn't see the impact, but the sound left nothing to imagination.

"Everyone okay?" Naota couldn't hear jack-diddly by now. All he perceived were his eardrums demanding the pain cease, with high pitched ringing. Kamon was pulling on his shirt, so he wobbled to his feet and was half-pulled into the landing.

"Everyone's okay." Kamon answered for them. Rig grunted, he was feeding the Versa Max shells. The house returned to deathly quiet again, except the _k-thuck, k-thuck, k-thuck_ of Rig pushing shells into the shotgun's tube. The clock on the wall said the entire shootout had lasted fifteen seconds; while feeling like an eternity.

"Good. Shin', Kamon, stay there. Naota, your room, guitar, now."

"My guitar, the bass? Why?"

" ** _NOW_**." As Naota moved, a sense of morbidity forced him to look down and left on the way. From the teeth up, most of the cop's head was gone. A charred, mashed trough of the mouth, some skull fragments, and a popped loose eye, remained. The rest had either gone out and up the wall, or been blasted through the new hole into his room. The carpet, his bed and sheets, and some of the far wall were flecked with red. The Rickenbacker 4001 however, patiently waiting on its stand, was pristine as ever.

Now Rig slowly descended the stairs with them waiting at the top. Halfway down, the Second Man, curled on his side with the stump of a left arm tucked under him, tried to bring his gun into play one-handed. The recoil and weight was too much to control and his burst put the kitchen stove permanently out of commission. Rig put another shell into him as the UMP-45's bolt locked open on an empty chamber. The rest of the Hit Squad had already expired.

"Okay, time to move. We've got no time, they're gonna be on top of us any second." Rig lead them out back, around and away from the mess at the stairs that was bleeding over into the living room. "Shigekuni, can you run, how fast can you move?"

"Not very." Shigekuni admitted.

"You, you." Rig directed Kamon and Naota. "Under the arms, carry him." They put his arms across his shoulders, lifting him off his feet, and followed Rig at a respectable trot. As they neared the shop, only when the rocks in the lot cut at his feet, did Naota realize he wasn't wearing any shoes.

"Get in here, let's go, on the double, hurry up!" Tommy was at the door of the shop, dressed to kill in a plate carrier and battle belt similar to Rig's, both the same deep green. He held an AK-47 in his left hand, and slung over his right shoulder was all of Rig's gear.

"As fast as Kek fuckin' wills it Tommy!" Rig ushered, more pushed, the three of them through the door at the same time. "Okay, okay…all, present and accounted for Tommy. Hurk…hang on." Rig rested the Versa Max against the wall, took two massive steps to the garbage can, bent over it, and hurled.

. . .

On ordinary Saturday mornings, 4:05AM would scarcely see anyone awake; Jerry non-withstanding. Thanks to him, Rita, and then seven company bosses, it would see everyone, their brother, cousin, and aunts and uncles too, on the move. Each person on the phone tree had five people to call, who each called five people themselves, and so on. This ensured it only took mere minutes for the 3,000 volunteers of the now activated Irregular Pennsylvanian Army to get out of bed. If they had not already sent their loved ones to safer grounds, these modern Minutemen gave one last goodbye before bolting out the door, equipment on their backs, rifles in hand, and promised they would be back soon.

Those with equipment issued from Overwatch carried it. Those who not so equipped improvised. Remington 760's and 700's, Mossberg 500's, Remington 870's, Ithaca 37's, AR-15's, civilian models of AK patterns, Ruger Mini-14's, Simonov's Carbines, a surprising number of M1 Garands, K98's, and Mosin Nagants, more lever action rifles than can be named, some CETME and G3 patterns, a handful of M1A's, and even the budget minded carried Hi-Point 995 carbines. This is to say nothing of the pistols carried as sidearms.

Each man that walked, ran, drove, or slunk quietly into that early morning gloom knew he was setting off down a road with no means to turn around. His mortal coil, his family states away, his friends from work, his race, species, and planet, rested on his shoulders. But still he ran forward. He could very well have to shoot, kill, maim, burn, hack, stab, crush, beat, bludgeon, and eviscerate his enemies, in order to protect everything he loved. He was in the front row of a macabre murder show, potentially with his role to be not living to see the end; or even a hand in their failure. But still these frightened, flawed, and brave, Pennsylvanian Men ran into the rhododendron and mountain laurel, into the unknown.

. . .

* * *

*Born to Be Wild - Steppenwolf

I feel we have not quite reached our 'Colonial Minutemen facing British Regulars on the Lexington Green' moment, but we are certainly close.

The question I'm sure is on everyone's mind: what did (or didn't) Haruko and The Man agree on, what accord was made or broken? Poor Piddles: The Wonder Dog did his best but as of now, we can't be sure. All we know is our story is getting kinetic in an awful hurry. Do whatever math you have to do, but be sure to factor Haruko makes no bones about what's really important to her.

Kamon and Shigekuni I hope to work with more; I really hope to work with all the characters more as a matter of course! But just because Kamon has cultivated some grey hair and a little more worldly wisdom doesn't mean he isn't still his old self. "Nao's just like me, so he must be doing it...I know he's doing it...doing, doing it, Fooly-Cooly-ing!' Sound familiar? :D

I think the combat speaks for itself. There's nothing I can add here.

Sorry again for no Medical Mechanica or Red Star scenes, maybe next time! Until then, thank you very much for reading!


	19. Chapter 19

I like to think I'm a simple guy, and thus have simple plans for situations like the one we've found our favorite FLCL characters in. There are two steps, or Levels of Readiness, in BigCountry75's F.F.D.S. or FanFiction Defense System. 1. Find a helmet. (GI M1, German Stahlhelm, British Brodie, French Adrian, Soviet SSh-40; we're not picky) and 2. Put on the helmet. FanFiction...put on your helmet.

* * *

. . .

Never had I been so pumped with adrenaline and overcome with the heaves that I'd puked. Since Rita had tossed me out of bed, everything had been at one speed: holy shit, I'm blacking out, get me off this thing. None of it seemed real, it all one bad acid trip dream. It had _felt_ real so far, the gravel road crunching on my sprint to Naota's, the Versa Max's recoil thudding against my shoulder…it _sounded_ real, the rasping of my breath, the ringing in my ears, the clacking chatter of suppressed UMP-45's…the shotgun's unburned powder _smelled_ real…the metallic and pungent flavor of blood particles drifting in the Nandaba's stairwell even _tasted_ real…but the whole affair seemed a dream, brought on by an undigested bit of beef, a blot of mustard, a crumb of cheese, or a fragment of underdone potato. Only when Tommy pressed my rifle into my hands did I get the feeling of things becoming concrete again.

"How are you, any of you hit, hurt?" Tommy was checking the Nandabas. The trio were rattled, Shigekuni was red faced and firmly planted on a chair, but none were injured. I and the hit squad had both destroyed a good portion of the kitchen, living room, and staircase, and blown a hole in Naota's bedroom wall, but all of that could be bleached away and replaced. "Arms up, let's check, make sure you're not hit in the armpit. Turn…turn…turn…okay. Rig, what happened?"

"Four man squad, suppressed subguns, night vision…" I explained as I put on my carrier and battle belt. In all the hubbub, no one had the time to grab me a pair of pants. That's right. I was jumping neck deep into a fight with the State Patrol wearing boots, a wife beater, and my underoos. Rock out with your Glock out. 'Least I don't wear tighty-whiteys. "I think they planned on catching them sleeping. One per room, last to pull security, three little pops, mission over." Now the Nandabas all looked sick too, imagining never waking up or worse, waking up to a gun barrel in their face, and a bright flash.

"And why is that exactly?!" Ah, fuggin' Christ…not now! Naota had gotten over his initial shock. "Why were the cops at my house?! Why does everyone have body armor? Why is…?"

"Naota, Naota…listen, listen to me. First, give me this back, let go…there we go." I took my revolver back and holstered it. He had started talking with his hands and the GP100's muzzle was beginning to wander. "Nao', I have kept you safe, and thus kept my word, so far. I know this is fucked up, I know none of this seems fair or makes sense. You have a million questions, all warranted. But this is not the time. If you want to get answers, you're gonna have to survive 'till dawn, at minimum. And to do that, you have to stop getting hysterical like this. Take some deep breaths, calm down, and trust me a little longer. Can you do that?"

. . .

They looked like soldiers. Johnny, Josh, Mike, Shifty, Tommy, Rig…All wore deep green body armor vests and equipment belts, pistols on their hips, rifles across their backs. They were shifting shop equipment around, setting it up as barricades and fighting positions. But as Naota watched, he saw they moved with purpose. None were emotional, none were shouting, yelling, upset or fearful. They were as calm as could be. Motion wasn't rushed, it was measured. They had obviously practiced this scenario before, so while still nervous, it didn't impede their actions. This was a team that knew what they were about, and were going to do their utmost to keep him safe; and had done so thus far.

"Okay…whew…fuck me…okay, okay…" Calmed down, he straightened up. "Rig. If that's the case, then give me a rifle."

"That's the spirit!"

. . .

"Sir, I haven't heard anything from Kilo Squad." The shotgun seat rider of the first MRAP reported a No-Contact. "They're not responding."

"Keep trying." The commander thought and added: "They may have had to go dark."

"Roger that. Carson property in thirty seconds, ready up." The commander was nervous about not hearing from Kilo Squad, who were supposed to have set up overlook of the Carson's main house by now. Without any response, the main task force was going in blind to the current state of the area, and instead going on their satellite pictures. Expected contraband was bomb making materials, weapons, ammunition, and destructive devices, at minimum. All electronic devices such as cameras, computers, and phones, were to be seized as well. Suspects were known to be armed, and considered extremely dangerous. Presence of a weapon meant to be shot on sight. But it was only four in the morning, and they only expected a couple in their 60's, possibly one male in his 30's, and a teenaged nephew; not _twelve_ wide awake, well-armed, and dug in defenders. The convoy turned off the pavement and onto the gravel drive. The task force commander called to HQ.

"Sergeant Kauffman, Sergeant Peterson of Task Force 1-1 reporting."

"Acknowledged Peterson. Go ahead."

"No contact from Kilo Squad, believe they have gone dark. No signs of disturbance or occupants, appears normal. But we have no idea of any activity before our arrival. Do I proceed?" Sergeant Peterson, and many other Troopers, knew of Cole's distaste for the Carsons. Sergeant Peterson waited patiently, feeling it should have been Cole leading the raid, not him.

"You are to proceed. I want the place cleaned out from top to bottom. No one gets out. NO ONE."

"Understood sir. Stand by for contact reports." Peterson clicked his radio channel over. "Alright gentlemen, this's it. Let's rock 'n' roll!"

. . .

"Mike, button us up." George ordered after he and Rita dashed across the lot from the house. Mike slammed the shop door shut, locked and barred it. He then lifted up a sliding panel on the wall, reached into the hole and pulled a lever. From the double wall and above the door, a slab of six steel plates, each an inch thick and welded together, spanning the six foot distance between the columns astride the door, dropped down with a teeth bouncing thud; pinning the door in place. _Nothing_ was getting through that door. Wait, you're hung up on the double wall? Well, lucky you, so was Naota.

"Hang on…" He put his hand into the door lever opening, but turned it the opposite way. "The walls are filled with concrete!"

"So you bulletproofed the place eh?" Shigekuni, only his second time in it, looked around at the shop. "Now I know why the size in here doesn't fit quite right with the size on the outside."

"We didn't bullet proof it, great-grandad did when he built it." I explained. Everyone was manning their positions, and I mine: next to Naota. "The walls are eight inches of concrete, eight inches of lapping steel and ceramic plates, then another eight of concrete. The only thing getting through is a tank round."

"How high does the concrete go?" Kamon looked at the ceiling with uncertainty of his overhead cover.

"All the way to the ceiling, which is hardened too. Just not as much. Great-grandad designed it all himself, built it with only people who worked here. He didn't want some contractor knowing, or bragging out it at the bar…"

"Here they come!" Josh announced from his computers, Canti standing by. Shifty had gone around the day before double-checking all of our cameras and sensors, making sure they were all in place and still working properly. "Great fuckin' Moons of Jupiter Batman. One, two, three…three MRAP's, roof gunners. Two support SUV's, two cruisers, and a meat wagon. Easily fifty plus."

"What kind of MRAP's?" Shifty wanted to know. Only Josh and Canti could see the cameras feeds. Usually they only showed a deer or late night opossum, but the driveway shot had the full spread of the eight vehicle convoy.

"They're the…Cougar model, I think."

" _Cougars?!_ " Shifty was beside himself.

"The vehicle model, not the lady; none of us are that lucky."

"And now you've ruined my day."

"Heh-heh." Someone behind me had giggled. It would be Kamon.

"Stow it Shifty." George checked the feed himself before redirecting everyone. "Focus up, man your posts." Shifty took up position at one of the firing ports installed in the wall. To use one, you slide up the sheet metal covering, reach in and swing up the lock, then press the button for a compressed air valve that will pop the outer wall portion up. A hydraulic ram keeps pressure down on it when closed, so it can only be opened from the inside. The only way in is pulling the entire wall down. The ports are beveled on our side, so from a one hand tall and six inch long slit, you have a wider angle of fire with a smaller target to the other guy. "Rig, you need to be at a port too."

"Stay behind the forklift, okay?" We'd stacked several steel plates in front of it, and the forklift's counterweight along would stop a fifty cal. "Do not move from this spot unless we tell you."

"We got it. Anything else?" Kamon asked.

"See the four doors?" I pointed at the bay doors, the front door, and the side door as Johnny blocked it with another steel barrier. "Shoot any, I mean anything, and anyone, that comes through them. Same as the house, not once, not twice, but until it stops moving or you run out of ammo; then beat them to death with your rifle."

"Can do." Shigekuni confirmed. Confident in their state and position, I left them at the forklift and looked over Josh's shoulder. The three MRAP's had pulled into the lot first, in a line between us and the house. The lighter vehicles then pulled between _us and the MRAP's_. They thought we were all inside the house, asleep. We'd certainly made it look that way. While I was at Naota's, everyone had done some redecorating. All of our trucks had been relocated behind Clifford: The Big Red Mobile Crane, in the garage half of the shop, and thus out of sight, mind, and gunfire. Two old beater pickups from the Boneyard had been substituted into the house's carport as sacrificial stand-ins. All but two exterior lights, the one over the shop's office door and one over the carport, were off. I was supposed to be at the wall, but couldn't stop watching with Josh and Canti events outside unfolding in a combination of FLIR and green-screen night vision.

I tried to count as they piled out of the MRAP's. Twelve, twenty, thirty, forty-two…Josh's guess of fifty plus was dead on. Most covered the house teams from behind their vehicles, and some a four man squad that split off to march right up to the shop's office door. An unfortunate twelve man team split into two squads, six to the carport and six around back to my, MY I tell you, basement door. Look, I'm trying to be 'objective' and 'matter of fact', but y'all know that ain't me, and…dude! It's my friggin' basement they were about to smash up; I live down there goddammit! They didn't know how badly it was going to go, I'm sure it sounded like a good plan at the time. As they were getting into position, George did something I thought at first, rather odd.

"Josh, give me the wireless microphone!" He ordered, watching through his firing port. "Hurry, before they count off!" Confused but following his orders, Josh popped out the USB cable for the desktop mic, plugged in the remote receiver and its audio jack, and tossed George the handheld unit.

"You're live in…three…" He counted down as he started up the loudspeakers; installed in several recesses under the shop's roof overhang. "…Two…One…"

. . .

"Alpha Squad in position. Ready to breach."

"Bravo Squad in position. Ready to breach."

"Juno Squad in position. Ready to breach."

"India Squad confirms." Sergeant Peterson was observing from the armored pillbox of his MRAP. "Breach and clear on my mark. Three…two…"

"Officers of the Pennsylvania State Highway Patrol, cease and desist! I say again, cease and desist!" An amplified voice commanded. A mild panic crept in despite their numbers. The element of surprise was gone and their enemy knew exactly who they were. They also could not pinpoint the voice's location or origin, the sounds were bouncing between the metal shop and house too much to decipher.

"George Carson? Is that you?" Sergeant Peterson used the loudspeaker mounted atop his MRAP, usually for crowd control, to reply. "We have a warrant for your arrest and to search the premises. If you come out with your hands up, this will go much easier for everyone."

"I'm terribly sorry, but I can't do that. I know you're here to kill me and seize everything not nailed down."

'Oh, this's not good.' Peterson's gut began to sink. 'And where the fuck is Kilo Squad?!' This had all the potential of another Ruby Ridge. He wanted this over with five minutes ago.

"Mister Carson, we are not here to negotiate. If you do not come out with your hands up, we are going to drag you out. We can either do this the easy way, or the hard way. It's your choice."

"No Officer, it is _your_ choice. What you're doing is wrong, and ALL of you know it."

'This's just wonderful. The asshat's gonna give a moral lecture before we smoke him.' But George had yet to make his offer.

"But if you and your troopers lay down your arms and retreat now, that'll be the end of it. No one else has to get hurt, no more Human blood needs to be wastefully spilled."

"Mister Carson, what do you mean? Are you…?"

"Have you heard from Kilo Squad lately?" Every trooper, all fifty eight of them, heard that and felt their stomachs tighten and balls recede just a hair. If Kilo Squad, assigned to wet work, was down, why hadn't they called for help and how had they been taken out? Was this a setup? How many people really were on the premises, were there hidden cameras…traps?

"Sergeant Kauffman at Command, this is Sergeant Peterson with Task Force 1-1, come in." Peterson urgently called, every second meaning this operation was going from silent and deadly, to bad, to worse, to clusterfuck.

"Sergeant Kauffman. Go ahead Peterson."

"Sergeant, George Carson either knew we were coming, or has a lightning response time. He's on some loudspeaker and claiming to have taken out Kilo Squad. We have no visuals on anyone, but he has us under observation, and I don't know from how or where. How do we proceed?"

. . .

"Josh, he's taking too long. Kill the radios." Josh leaned over and flipped an unmarked breaker on the panel. Up on a shelf at the ceiling, hidden in the rafters, a radio jammer the size of a small suitcase came online. All radios in a four hundred yard wide circle now only played static.

. . .

"Do I have your undivided attention now, Officers?" The loudspeakers crackled again. Sergeant Peterson tried every channel and only heard static. This wasn't happening. Communications were how his Task Force operated. Without them, it was shouted word only and no link back to command for updates and calling for backup.

"This, this is your last chance!" He shouted for sake of saying something.

"It is _your_ last chance Officer. I didn't want any of this. I wanted to retire to Florida, scuba dive and spear fish, get hammered at ten in the morning and make love to my wife on the beach. I'm sure all you want is something simpler, and admirable. You want safety and security for your wife, your kids, and that they will have a future that doesn't end in a mass grave. But Medical Mechanica isn't what you think it is, The Red Star isn't a Heaven, it's a Hell, and The Man in Black is a forked tongue in a cheap suit. Please, I'm begging you. For your own lives, or if those don't matter to you anymore, your families…please disperse. If not, I will defend myself….Well everyone, I tried, I don't, oh shit." George was caught with a hot mic before turning it off.

"There's more than one of them!" Peterson screamed out his window. "BREACH! BREACH NOW DAMN IT!"

All three squads, Alpha, Bravo and Juno, breached at the same time. Alpha was forced between two ramshackle pickup trucks in the carport. Both were parked with their passenger doors inches from the wall and almost touching the house with their bumpers. This forced Alpha into a single file line right up to the door. As the battering ram knocked the door in, a magnetic circuit opened. Instead of activating an alarm or dialing out 911, it released a charged capacitor. The voltage surged up a wire strung inside the ceiling of the carport and into a row of Tovex mining explosives. Above the row of Tovex charges had been laid a heavy steel L-angle and then bags of sand piled over that to direct the explosive force downwards into the carport. Underneath the Tovex was a bed of nails, nuts, bolts, washers, screws and ball bearings.

One moment, the carport was there, then a flash and window shattering blast, and it was gone. Under the elevated back porch, a similar explosion, with identical shrapnel and planted Tovex, was touched off when the sliding glass door was shattered. The back porch vanished in a flurry of splinters, hardware, and fire. The awning over the shop's office door had been rigged as well, blowing the awning to slivers and throwing the four officers back across the lot. As the triple explosions rolled over the hills, Sergeant Peterson's ears stopped ringing long enough to hear six small clanks _behind_ him. He turned and saw six narrow slits had opened up on the sheet metal plated wall of the shop. It took him a split second to do the math.

"Behind us, behind us! They're in the shop!"

. . .

"Weapons free!" George gave the go-ahead and we lit into their flank. In the first volley we dropped, I believe, seven or eight, I'll go with eight. I can't say if I hit any or not, it's rather hard to see through a firing port even on a bright afternoon, and it's maddeningly hard to hit a moving, bobbing, weaving, schuckin' and jivin' target; especially when the target very much does not want to get hit. If the explosives were loud, then we rendered ourselves 'Army career of twenty years in field artillery' levels of deaf by firing six rifles in the enclosed box of the shop. The sound had nowhere to go except straight up our ears. Mike was the worst offender. He had our only machinegun, an RPK. He was at the slit next to the door, built a hair wider for better shots. He also had a table next to him covered in 75-round drums. While most of us were using three or four round bursts, or semi auto for accuracy's sake like me, he could put the barrel to the rest and hold down the trigger. Ask any combat veteran what one of the worst parts of war is, and a common response you'll get is 'the noise.' We couldn't hear ourselves _think._

The State Troopers recovered to the turnabout rather well. The SUV's and Paddy Wagon we of course _shredded_ , but the MRAP's provided easy cover for them to regroup. The M240 trio got warmed up and returned fire, forcing some of us to spring aside from our port and drop it closed. I think what contributed most to my Pucker Factor, was leaning with my back to the wall, and listening to the rounds hitting it behind me; and knowing if the wall wasn't there, I would have been ballistically reduced to a meat slushie.

"Smoke, they're using smoke!" Johnny was still on his port and black fumes came roiling in. The one flaw great-grandad had not designed out was that the shop was not airtight. If the cops outside had enough patience, and a tank of smoke, tear gas, and CS, they could gas us out. Hell, build a big enough fire upwind and they could smoke us out; or at least render us flavored like Christmas hams. Sure, we had gas masks in the storeroom, but seeing how no one had bothered to grab me any _PANTS_ , guess what else we didn't have on hand when they followed up the smoke with CS and tear gas? Here's hint. CS smells like a mix of burning bleach and yellowed, sweat stained and salt crusted gym socks left in a gym bag forgotten in the back of your closet, from last year's flag football game in the rain. Shit's nasty.

"They're moving to the front door." Josh still manned the cameras, switching to FLIR as the smoke obscured his night vision. "Twelve up front, six to the side. I think they'll try to breach both at the same time."

"Are they on the X?" Shifty asked, firing a short burst to let everyone outside know we were still in business.

"No, I would've done it already if they were!"

"Are they at least close?"

"Kinda-sorta, we'd only get for sure one SUV; the rest is a variable."

"Ready it all the same." George had been listening in. He then redirected us. "Shifty, Mike, cover the side door; stay back from in case of shaped charges. Johnny, Tommy, stay here, Rita, take up…uh, here, behind the press." I gotta say, it was a beautiful sight to see George finally come into his own, making calls and decisions on the fly. I suspect he had it all along, but needed a bit of hammering ot bring out. "And Rig, take Naota downstairs and send him out. If they want in here, they eventually will be. So it's best to move him while there's time."

"You got it. Naota, on your feet." I lead him over to the second bay and the shop's main circuit breaker. Most of the switches are not marked or have labels so old and peeling they're useless. I started flipping switches. "Let's see. One left, yes. One right, yes. Two right, yes, yes. Two left, yes, yes…" And so on, and so on. "Seven right, yes. Six left, yes! Stand back!"

"Back from what? Oh!" The concrete slab just aside our feet lowered and dropped into a ramp leading down into the basement.

. . .

The floor had fallen away, now a ramp down to darkness replaced it. Naota looked across the shop at his Dad and Grandpa. Both gave acknowledging nods before returning to reinforcing their position. Rig had already started down the ramp, expecting him to follow. Between staying in a shop filling with smoke, gas, and rifle fire, or the subterranean, Naota followed.

"What is this, how have I never seen it?" He asked as Rig flicked on a light. He found himself face to double eye rows with the Scorpion Bot, to its side the Industrial. With a little light, he saw the room was actually large but filled with the two robots on the right wall. The back wall was floor to ceiling of military crates and ammunition cans; tens of thousands of rounds, explosives, what looked like grenades, even what could have read as mortar shells if the lettering wasn't so worn. The left wall shelved more crates, these general supplies and equipment, a row of large lockers, and a steel door that looked more like the face of a bank vault. Rig had some of the crates open and was rifling through them.

"Here's some boots and socks, put 'em on." He tossed a surplus pair of Vietnam era black jungle boots: size ten. "You'll need one of these, two of these…eight of these, prob'bly one of these, make it two…"

"Rig, Rig…what's going on?" Naota put on the socks and boots, leaning against the wall for support. "What is all this? Are you guys some kind of agency, like the I.I.B. or something?"

"The I.I.B.? They wish. Here's your stuff, put it on." Rig held out a bundle of gear in one hand, their rifles in the other.

"Put on what, n…no. No, I'm not, not until you explain what all this is! There are people out there trying to kill me, and I have a right to know why!"

"Rig, hurry up down there!" Tommy yelled.

"Nao', I've already told you this ain't the time nor place. In case you've missed the past hour, they're trying to kill ME too! And if you keep up with the questions, they're gonna succeed. Now put this stuff on, or Holy Mother of Christ, _I_ will dress you, then hustle your ass down the tunnel before I throw you down it!... ** _MOVE!_** "

"I wish none've this ever happened…why couldn't things just be fucking ordinary? _Normal_ for a damn change…" Naota swore as he put on a belt and suspenders, but with no pistol, then plate carrier; this one with rifle plates. "Nothing exciting, no robots, no aliens…just me still at home…"

"I'm trying to help you, but yah've got to _focus!_ " Rig jarred him back. "Look, I promise you, on my father's grave, I will explain everything. But I can't now, there isn't time. Those doors aren't going to hold and when they go down, you need to be long gone. Remember everything I've taught you and you should be alright. I'll see you in twelve hours, I hope."

"But…"

"NO! No buts! Move, run, ride! Git gone Naota Nandaba, save your ass!" Rig threw open the tunnel door and shoved him in. "People are trying to kill you, and I'm trying to help you! Is that not reason enough?!"

"Easy for you to say!" There was a muffled _BOOM_ …and some dust shook loose from the ceiling. A long burst of several rifles followed. "So, follow the tunnel, follow the instructions, twelve hours?"

"Sounds right. See you on the other side. Do not surrender that guitar under penalty of death, dash it to a thousand pieces before you do. And…" Rig handed him an AK-47, pressing it into his hands. "If you know you're gonna go out, make sure it's on a pile of hot brass. Good luck."

. . .

"Corporal! The charges were ineffective!"

"What?! It's just a cheap steel door." Corporal Luis was now in charge. Sergeant Peterson had taken a bullet to the brain; repainting the inside of his MRAP's cabin. Luis had warned him to keep his window closed. But since their radios weren't working, and smoke was blanketing much of the area, hand signals or shouting were their only options. And now, whoever were in the shop, had started using their loudspeakers to blast music, further hindering communications. Now a runner had to be sent back and forth to the forward breaching teams; as the defenders kept up with intermittent rifle fire.

"And it went down no problem, but there's a _huge_ steel plate behind each one. Unless we've got a torch, some thermite, or enough C4 to level the building, we're not getting in."

"There is one thing we could try." Corporal Luis thought of the crate in the locker of the second MRAP.

"Sir?! Sir, I can't hear you!" The trooper climbed up to the cab.

"What?!"

"You'll have to yell Sir, I can't hear you over this!"

"Damn music!" Corporal Luis swore, trying to block it out.

 _*It's time to play The Game!_

 _Time to PLAY THE GAAMMMEEE! M-Whuahaha!_

 _AH! Ah-ha-ha-ha!_

 _It's all about The Game, and how you play it!_

 _All about Control, and if you can take it!_

 _All about your Debt, and if you can pay it!_

 _It's all about PAIN, and who's gonna make it!_

 _I AM The Game, you don' wanna play me!_

 _I AM Control, no way you can chain me!_

 _I AM Heavy Debt, no way you can pay me!_

 _I am The Pain, and I know you can't tame me!_

"What is it sir?"

"We've got an AT4 in the second truck; and only one. Pull the teams back from both doors. We'll have to go through just the front." The runner took off and disappeared back into the smoke. From behind the MRAP's and shot up cars, a few more smoke and gas grenades were thrown. They were running low on these, they'd have to hurry and make this breach quick.

"Who's trained on the AT4?" Sergeant Peterson would have known, but he was leaking on the dashboard. "Dom', who's trained on the AT4?"

"Not sure, Corporal!" Trooper Dominck was trying to make himself small behind one of the MRAP's tires. "Try Roberts, I think."

"Roberts?! Roberts?!"

"Sir! Roberts…" Corporal Luis didn't hear the reply.

"What?!"

"Roberts is…" Someone pointed at a body lying face down in a pool of blood, its arm twisted too far in its socket so the palm faced upward. The name stripe under the larger POLICE stripe on his back read: ROBERTS.

"Anyone else?" Corporal Luis had dismounted the MRAP, walking from trooper to trooper, asking for anyone who knew how to use the AT4. He flattened as a burst rang out from the building. There was a loud _SQUEENCH_ at the last round, followed by a _CR-nch…Thud._ He looked back to see Dominick dead in the dirt, his head nearly separated from his shoulders; neck nearly shot away. Luis took it upon himself to put the AT4 into play, before they were whittled away to nothing.

"Thank Christ, there's a manual." He had looked down to see a green tube and despaired. He carried it over to the SUV in front of the door, knelt with the AT4 propped on the SUV's door, and read:

1\. Remove transport safety pin.

2\. Unsnap shoulder stop.

3\. Open front and rear sights.

4\. Unfold cocking lever with right hand.

4A. Place thumb under lever, push forward.

4B. Rotate downward and to the right.

4C. Slide backwards.

5\. Hold down safety lever with index and middle fingers.

6\. Use right thumb to fire.

"Well, that doesn't seem too hard." Corporal Luis readied to fire.

"Branman, Jones!" The squad leaders joined him, seeing the AT4 gave them a slight boost. They knew what Luis had in mind.

"Both our squads, front door?"

"Both front door. Delta and Fox will assault, Golf is follow-up. Hotel stays here with me and India to provide cover. I'll fire, we'll pop what smoke and gas we've got left, and you'll flash and stun before entering. Once you're in, waste _everything._ " The Delta and Fox leaders looked at the bullet-riddled SUV, their pockmarked MRAP's with windows spiderwebbed, and the now twenty seven bodies spread around the house and lot, not including the disappeared Kilo Squad, and agreed with Luis's plan. Once everyone was in position and flashed Thumbs Up, Corporal Luis counted down.

"Three, two, ONE!" _CL-Ick. TH-WHOOOOMMM!_ The AT4's rocket lit off, its backblast peeling the paint off the MRAP behind it. The warhead detonated against the steel barricade, buckling it inwards with enough force to rip it free of its channel and toss it backwards against the opposite wall. A hail of smoke, CS and tear gas followed; the last they had.

"Move up, move up!" Branman lead Delta to the door, all firing at the wall ports to keep the defenders back. Jones and Fox Squad followed right behind them. Almost to the door, one of the men in Delta threw his stun grenade, bouncing it perfectly off the door frame and into the shop. As it disappeared inside, the trooper found himself lifted off the ground, the shop's walls quickly coming to meet him at face shattering speed. His eardrums were so rapidly ruptured, he didn't even register and explosion had taken place. Unknowingly, Delta and Fox had walked across 'The X', a planted circle and cross of remotely detonated Tovex explosives. Josh, with a push of a button, had sent a signal to the buried Daisy Chain, and sent both squads flying. He'd also rolled the SUV Corporal Luis was using for cover. It slammed into the front end of one and back end of another MRAP, crushing Corporal Luis between them. Now there was a fifty foot wide by three foot deep crater where ten men had been standing a second ago; and the dust, rocks, and body parts, were still falling.

"Oh holy fuck! Christ, no!" One trooper yelled as he fired back in anger.

"Cease fire dammit!" Ammunition was running low. "How many are left?"

"Ten, eleven, fifteen…twenty…one. Twenty one of us sir!"

"Twenty one, that's it?! Holy shit. What happened to Luis?"

"He fuckin' ate it man!"

"Well, who's in charge now?"

No one had an answer.

. . .

Naota only heard the rocket as a muffled thump. The tunnel was rough cut, but a fairly smooth floor, sloping slightly down, and it was unlit. Rig had thoughtfully included a Fulton flashlight in the equipment he'd given him. He kept the red filter on to preserve what little night vision he'd accumulated in the dark. Consulting a mental map, it seemed the tunnel was taking him under the runway and out to the mountainside, probably to an overlook of the valley and Yamaha Trail below. For several minutes nothing had yielded to the flashlight's beam except more darkness, but he knew he would soon run out of mountain.

Sure enough, he came to a door, secured into the rock with bolts as thick as his arm. Next to it, leaning against the wall, waited an older model Yamaha YZ250, spray painted green, brown and black camouflage. Sitting on the seat was a handheld GPS, a clip to secure it to the handlebars, and a set of instructions.

"If you're reading this…" Naota went down the list. "That means the shit has hit the fan. Oh, Rig wrote this. But fear not, all is not yet a fully-fledged goat-fuck. Yep, Rig was here. Use these coordinates, then switch the GPS to its beacon finder function. Stay off the roads as much as possible, paved, dirt, gravel, or otherwise. Avoid a fight at all costs. If it cannot be avoided, fight like your life depends on winning, because it does. Your tank of gas will get you thirty miles, forty if you're careful, remember that. Good luck."

The door swung outwards, showing the tunnel's end was under the root system of several massive bushes and trees, and the door itself was well blended to the hill. It was also almost a sheer drop, with only a foot wide gouge into the hill for a bike path down. Now hearing bursts of gunfire behind him, he wavered on running. It wasn't right of him to leave. Another long burst of gunfire rang out and he recognized the pattern as an AK. He wanted to turn back, but what good would he do? He'd never been in a gunfight, and reasoned he'd only be getting in the way. As morbid as it sounded, it would be a travesty if all of them were killed. At least _someone_ had to survive; and it seemed he'd been volun-told to be the designated survivor. So with a heavy heart, he first shut the door. Then he secured the Rickenbacker and his newly acquired AK-47 across his back, powered up and strapped in the GPS, and started the bike down the hill.

The GPS was his only light as it took him up the Yamaha Trail, then across Moshannon Creek and past the small time operation of Rushtown Mining. He dashed across Tyrone Pike, paralleling Cold Stream north, then actually dropping onto its banks as the woods became too dense. The GPS commanded a right turn, taking him across a wide field, then down into the sunken Port Matilda Highway, then up and across another field and back into the woods. Now he was following Black Bear Run, passing underneath Black Moshannon Road with a roar as his exhaust echoed off the storm drain bridge.

He tooled along as fast as he dared, rarely going over twenty five. But in the morning twilight it felt like a million miles an hour as trees, rocks, sweepers and logs leapt out at him. Naota wished most at that moment for a helmet as branches took swipes at his face. It was a matter of time before he put an eye out. Even a pair of goggles would have been an improvement. Now another right turn. Straight up the ridge and down the other side onto Hannah-Furnace, then back into the woods. He slowed to scale back the GPS's route and decided to take Six Mile Run north, the follow Casanova Road for a while before dashing himself in the face with yet another branch.

'There'll be no one out here anyway, not this early…oh _fucking HELL!_ ' At the intersection of Six Mile Run and Casanova Road, lay in wait a roadblock of three Sheriff's cars. He didn't stop to say hello or ask for directions, and they didn't bother with yelling halt or stop. A buzzing 5.56mm hornet sailed past his ear, then simultaneously a second struck him squarely on the back while a buckshot load blew out his back tire.

It wasn't as much the pain, but the suddenness and force of the round slamming him onto the handle bars, that was worse. The vest, and rifle plates in it, Rig had given him, did their job of saving his life; at least momentarily anyway. The real pain started when he lost control of the bike and slipped into the ditch. In revenge, the bike tried to drown him, one of the pegs latching onto his boot before he could yank free. With just enough time to spare, he wrenched the GPS off the handlebars and clenched its strap between his teeth. Sputtering, wheezing and coughing up water, he clawed up the hill, ripping off two fingernails in the frantic climb.

The deputies lazily pulled up in one of their cruisers, shining their spotlight on the ditch, then panning around the woods before back on the ditch. They piled out, pointing down at the sunken dirt bike, then peered around for a rider. He couldn't hear what they were saying, but knew he couldn't stay where he was. The GPS said it was another two miles (in a straight line) to just the waypoint, no telling how far it would be to the beacon, and he wasn't going to get there on foot.

'Got to find a ride…got to find a way to move faster than a walk…' He doubled back to the roadblock, watching it from the bushes. Two vehicles were in front of him, while the third was to his right, checking on the ditch. One vehicle was just across the road and by itself, the third was across the intersection entirely and guarded by two deputies; who were looking the opposite way down Casanova Road. He…he _could_ , in _theory_ …sneak across the road, and since the driver door was opposite the deputies still there, get into the car closest to him and, still in theory mind you, start it. In a universe of infinite possibilities, there was one he actually pulled this off; maybe this was it?

'Or you could wander around in the woods for a few days, get eaten by the bears, or shot…again. It's an old Crown Vic', couldn't be too hard to hotwire.' It was hard to breathe. He couldn't seem to get enough air, and his breath came in rattling wheezes. He couldn't tell if he'd been wounded or not, but feared he had been, based on the pain spreading across his back. As wet as he was, he could have been bleeding to death and never known the difference. And the sun was threatening to start rising any moment.

"Fuck it."

He stole back down the hill and crept doubled over across the road. Making it to the driver's door, he congratulated himself on not giving himself away by breathing. The door was unlocked, but the keys were gone. He bit his knuckle to stop from swearing. A quick glance in the mirror showed the other two deputies were still unaware. The others down the road were now either in the woods, following his claw marks, or trying to fish the dirt bike out of the ditch.

He lost another fingernail getting the plastic covering off the steering column, but it was worth it. With no tools handy, he pulled, and pulled, and pulled, _and pulled_ , the wires loose from their terminals. Now he had to actually sit down on the seat, so he unslung his guitar and rifle, setting the guitar on the passenger seat and rifle against the console, so he could fit. Looking down, it was only then did he see the multi-tool pouch Rig had attached to his vest.

'Of fuckin' course…only after I lose three nails…' He grumbled, stripping off the wires. 'I'm still gonna get shocked though…oh this's gonna hurt. Maybe my shirt'll help.' He pulled down the edges of his shirt and wrapped his fingers.

"Ow-h-HOW. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck…" If the burning in his fingers and metal tang on his tongue were any indicators, the Crown Vic was putting up a fight. But the lights were on, the patrol radio popped and fizzed static, and even one of the two deputies had walked off into the woods to take a leak. He tapped the power supply wires and the car started right up. He bent the wires back over, and kept his legs apart to avoid getting shocked again, and pulled the door closed. That got some attention.

"Hey, what…what the hell?" One of the deputies had heard him. "Hey, hey…hey! Stop, stop right now! Hands out the window!" Naota dropped the lever down to drive and only _after_ stomping on the gas, did he remember the steering lock was engaged. The Crown Vic wasn't done with him yet.

"Get out of the vehicle, sir stop the…" One of them was running alongside, trying for the door handle. Naota tapped the gas just enough to keep moving, trying to jam the knife of the multi-tool between the wheel and column to open the lock. Almost got it…almost… "Stop the vehicle, stop…GUN!" The deputy had spotted the AK next to his right knee, and still running, opened fire. Two hit the rear door and stopped in the divider wall. Another passed through the door, under his knees and into the floorboards. A fourth blew a hole in the window next to his ear, slicing it with broken glass, then spiderwebbed a pie plate sized section of the windshield.

"C'mon, stupid piece of shit, move damn it!" Naota fought the lock, rapidly running out of road. He was headed for a curve and if he couldn't turn, was headed off the edge. More shots came his way, hitting the trunk, back windshield, what sounded like the row of lights on the roof, evidenced by the sprinkle of colored glass raining on the hood. _Finally_ there was a sharp crack and the steering wheel freed up. Now he put the pedal to the floor, skidding around the corner and using a tree to, ahem, 'correct', his course. With incoming fire slackening off, he plunked the GPS on the dash. Despite its dunk in the ditch, it still pointed east/north east. He made it around Devil's Elbow with little trouble, then turned left onto Huckleberry Road. Next to him, the radio chirped as the deputies were reporting a stolen police vehicle and coming after him, but already had a good head start.

The GPS then demanded a hard left onto what looked like an out of service access road. A mile or so up it, the radio traffic sounded like the deputies had missed the access road and were still headed on down Casanova. Now the GPS stopped. He promptly switched to Beacon Mode, hearing the GPS pinging softly. Off the road, onto a trail, with a winding path cut between the trees with a chainsaw; invisible if you weren't looking for it. This path was cut with a dirt bike in mind and he was forced to stop. Two hundred yards further at the top of the hill was a cleft in a house sized mound of boulders, and the GPS was pinging like mad. Slipping inside he found a hidden cave stocked with crates and boxes. There were two holes in the roof, one natural and one drilled. The natural hole was in the middle of the ceiling and blackened with campfire smoke. The drilled one had a small solar panel outside of it, then a cable down to a deep cycle battery, connected them to a beacon on top of a crate. He shut off both the GPS and beacon, then spied the bed in the corner. He curled up on the bare, mouse-eaten mattress with the bass next to his head and AK clenched to his chest, and exhausted, fell asleep.

. . .

Being unable to hear is terrifying, especially because you don't know if your sound system will come back or not. For similar, but even more visceral reasons, not being able to see, that, dear reader, is a nightmare. What could only have been some kind of damn bazooka or rocket hit the front door and blew it clear across the shop, smashing a lathe and knocking over three year's salary worth of drill presses. The flash that went with it was dazzling I must say, then a stun grenade followed, just as I was _of course_ looking at where the door had been. The last picture I had before it went off was George standing opposite me of the grenade, and it looked only an arm's length from him and level with his head…then, BOOM. Both it and the Tovex we'd buried in the lot outside naught a few days ago, went off. All I could see now were spots, those purple dots you get from looking at the sun for longer than a fleeting glance. Stripped of vision, I said 'to hell with it, might's well take a break' and sat down right there.

Sound came back first. Smell was still there all along, with taste and touch, as I could definitely sense the CS and Tear gas rolling in. But sound came back with Mike firing from his port, Rita yelling for Kamon to help her move George so she could check his head, and then Shifty asking if I was okay. Getting two of your senses knocked silly can really reset your thinking, making it remarkably clear if you're lucky. For all of three, four seconds, my mind was the emptiest it'd been in memory. So quiet…tranquil…Buddha sitting with me on the floor, in the dust, metal shavings and spent bullet casings, saying I had _almost_ achieved Enlightenment. Then Canti one-handed me to standing and as the blood rushed back in, real life came roaring back.

"How is he?" Tommy leaned over the shears where Rita and Shigekuni were working on George.

"Not good. Concussion at least, weak pulse…one eardrum, right side, is blown…"

"Hey Rig, welcome back!" Shifty steadied me, looking for obvious wounds. "Have a nice nap?"

"Five more minutes, eh Shifty?"

"C'mon, c'mon, back to work." He pulled my rifle back to my front as the sling was trying to strangle me. Things cleared up more so after that. "Yo, Tommy!"

"Yeah?!"

"What's the word?"

"The word is: FUCK!" And for some stupid reason, everyone found this hilarious.

"Couldn't have said it better. What now?"

"Let me think…" Tommy just realized, with George down, he was in charge. I wanted to run over and check on George myself, but Shifty steered me towards something more productive, standing me in front of a gun port. "Well, we can't stay here, ducking out the back isn't really an option either since we'd be on foot and rounded up in no time. We've got to bust out. Shifty, Johnny?" He asked the senior enlisted to opine.

"Agreed."

"Seconded."

"Got it. Okay…okay…" Tommy rolled his options, then cast his gaze down into the storeroom. Laying eyes on the Industrial, his sudden smile lifted everyone's spirits. "Here's what's up. Mike, front door. Rig, side door. Mike, Johnny, Shifty, start getting into your Ned Kelly's. Kamon, Shigekuni, if you're willing, right up here at the wall. Josh…" Tommy pointed down the ramp at the Industrial. "How soon can you get that thing running?"

. . .

There was nary an unbitten set of nails in the State Patrol's Mobile Command Center. Reports that _were_ coming in, painted a scene of disintegrating plans and growing chaos. There were too many targets to eliminate at once, but a four in the morning time was thought to be sufficient for catching all off guard and asleep. And like all well laid Battle Plans, it did not survive first contact with the enemy.

Nine out of ten houses were empty when the Task Forces arrived. Conditions of the houses showed most had been recently vacated; in one case a mug of coffee on the kitchen counter was still steaming hot. The tenth house out of the ten, were the worst cases. At least, that they were still in contact with, five Task Forces were pinned down and taking heavy casualties at or near targeted residences. How many more had been totally wiped out was a frightening unknown. Reinforcements were also reporting random sniper fire, their vehicles being hit by chance potshots, and hasty ambushes. A team of vehicles would approach a curve, tunnel, or bottleneck, and a group from behind rocks, trees, walls, or even in the ditch, would unleash a barrage of fire and vanish into the woods before a counter attack could be mounted. Cole was doing his utmost to stem the bleeding, but this was unprecedented. The police were used to having every advantage: the best firepower, equipment, armor, gadgets, numbers, and the ability to completely surround and lockdown any area; turning any encounter into a siege they controlled. When these advantages were rendered null and void, and the playing field yanked level instead of heavily tilted in their favor, the cops were finding they weren't half the bona-fide juggernauts they thought they were. And the stress of this new paradigm was causing some…friction, in the ranks.

"Sergeant Kauffman, I still have not received any communications from Task Force 1-1." One of the radio monitors looked deathly tired in the 'wired for red' lighting.

"Keep trying. They may have gone to a different frequency." Cole ordered, then added. "Get a relief force put together in case 1-1 needs reinforced."

"Sergeant! Task Force 2-3 is down." Another monitor reported, turning his volumn down to temporarily block out the yelling on the other end. "They were en route to 3-3, and are taking sniper fire from the buildings and Orthodox Church in Hawk Run."

"Have them pull back behind the river, uh…" Cole consulted the map screen on the wall. "Behind Emigh Run to the Morrisdale-Powell intersection, and wait for retasking."

"Task Force 4-4 has secured their target, but sustained casualties, are attempting to return to rally point."

"How bad are the casualties?"

"Fifty percent." TF 4-4 was down to ten officers. Not good. "Six KIA, three seriously injured, one walking wounded. Currently taking fire at Six Mile Road and Drane Highway."

"Have 4-4 rerout immediately to Osceola Mills P.D., via Drane. Strong will bitch and moan, but wounded take priority." As so it had been going for an hour and a half.

"Come in 3-2! 3-2!" One monitor was beginning to yell into his mic, causing the rest of the center to stop and listen. "What is your condition, over?"

"Condition…*pssshhhhtttt*...Condition Fucked! We're pinned down in Sandy Ridge Exca…*beeple-beeple-beep*…"

"Sandy Ridge Excavations? 3-2, that is…one, no, two clicks south of your objective. Are you…?"

"No shit Sherlock! Left, left, to your damn LEFT! They've got full-autos, body armor, even a goddamn Barrett fifty-cal! We're getting ripped to pieces down here, send someone to…*ppssshhhhttt*…*scrttchh*…*sccrrttcchh*…"

"Sunova bitch!" The monitor threw his headphones against the wall. "What the FUCK is going on?!"

"How many people did we try to pick up? Shit, sounds like there's a goddamn army out there."

"How the hell did so many targets get away before we even got there?" The panic was spreading, and paranoia exploded along with it. "It's like they knew we were coming!"

"Someone must've talked!"

"Whoa, hey! Let's not…"

"Fuck you, what else makes sense? None of the targets are home at four in the morning on a Saturday, and the ones that ARE home, are better armed and dug in than Burt Gummer!"

"What're you tryin' to say? C'mon, out with it!"

"Shit, I don't know…I mean, well…"

"I'll say what everyone is thinking."

"Sergeant Kauffman, sir?" Cole drew himself to full height, and saw his reflection on one of the wall's display screens. He looked resplendent in his uniform with its newly sewn stripes.

"Everyone here is thinking it, everyone here knows it. We have been set up to fail. As you know well, I was the first to be contacted by The Man. Not the mayors, not the Sheriff, not Captain Chojnacki. Me. And it was through me that all events, until the morning, have been coordinated with The Man. But now that Chojnacki and the lieutenants have been holding private audiences with The Man, now that HE is planning operations, we have disaster. And how convenient it must be, for him to have promoted a Patrolman straight to Sergeant, and handed him a two county wide, five hundred suspect large manhunt on the same hour of this promotion. My Brother Officers. This is a blatant power grab by Chojnacki and his lieutenants, to remove me from good standing with The Man, and install himself in my place of favor. But worst of all, the most despicable factor of all, is he is willing to let good officers die, and all of you be dragged down with me."

Except for garbled radio chatter, the command center was silent. No one could speak up in protest of Cole's words. They were all in an impressionable state, and what he said made sense. Chojnacki was known as a bureaucrat, a liaison to city halls where he rubbed elbows with politicians and curried political, personal favor. It was not inconceivable that the realpolitik and backstabbing ways may have leeched into Chojnacki's mind. And all events of the past hour and a half had every look, feel and sound of a setup; at the very least a massive information leak on top of their emails being stolen. While everyone in the center now agreed with Cole, they didn't know what to do next. All it took was a tepid soul.

"S-so…if you're right, then what do we do?"

"First, stop the bleeding. Recall all Task Forces, put out a full Retreat Order. Second, stabilization. Task Forces will be reorganized, and we here will return to the station. Third, prevent further injury. Chojnacki and his lieutenants must step down and be taken into custody, or removed. Understood?"

"Understood, Sergeant Kauffman!"

. . .

The N.O. flow in and around him, bearing the marks of War, had turned to a torrent. Ethereal blue of N.O.'s signature was running purple as blood mixed in. Knowing Men in Black and their ilk would be drawn as moths to this bonfire, Atomsk left the shelter of the mine. A sliver of sun was growing on the horizon, but it was still plenty dark for him. Restored to full health, he composed himself into his finest Phoenix form, spread his wings and departed in a mighty whirlwind.

There was no cause to immediately leave the planet, especially if the N.O. was being this disrupted. Atomsk preferred to watch events develop from a distance and avoid getting caught up in the chaos. So he headed west, looking for somewhere even more downstream and out of the way. As he soared, an old feather fell loose and tumbled back to Earth. The wind batted it around, and it finally settled not in King Coal, but miles away at the very bottom of Voyze's Quarry; the deepest bore of 1,000 feet down.

. . .

Haruko did not see Atomsk's departure. She was preoccupied with avoiding the eyes of every trigger happy cop in the county. Her bracelet and its chain link nearly took her hand off when Atomsk did leave, giving her a delightful jolt. He _was_ in the area, and close, so very, very close. There were two signals she could choose from. The one at King Coal was the strongest, so she turned back. Atomsk wasn't getting away this time. Not when he had so much to answer for, or when she was this close.

. . .

"Keee-hrist! This thing's heavy!"

"If you built it right, it'll save your life."

"Provided my spine doesn't snap under the weight…sure."

"Alright Mister Nandaba and…Mister Nandaba, would you be willing to lend us a hand?"

"Where do you need us?" Shigekuni hadn't looked this amped up his entire time in Pennsylvania. "I won't be much for running, but haven't forgot how to aim a rifle."

"You and Kamon stand here…and, here." Tommy positioned them to their own ports. He dropped a bag that clattered next to each. "There are ten forty round magazines in those bags. Keep us covered and their heads down. Use short bursts, don't overheat your guns. Hold until my signal. Josh! How are we?"

"We're…we're as good as we'll get." He looked up from his computers to give the red giant Industrial a mix of fear and awe. "Okay, so I'm not totally sure how its combat parameters work…"

"Meaning it'll turn on us, what?"

"If you'd let me finish…thank you. I have managed to set it to _react_ only. I think. It should only attack if you shoot it, throw shit at it, or something like that. Bear that in mind, and for the Love of God, P.B.R., and Eva Green…check your fire."

"Don't shoot the giant, killer robot. Got it." Shifty confirmed and donned his helmet.

"No Vial?" Shifty had stashed his case away.

"Nah, waste of a Vial and against the rules. Strictly for Men in Black or extraterrestrials only. Plus, the lead-time on replacement Vials is _atrocious._ "

"Take one, use it well…take one, use it well…take one, use it well…" Mike held out a box filled with Mk II's. I took one of the steel pineapples and hooked it onto my harness by its spoon. Everyone made last minute equipment checks, checked each other for hard to reach or seen places, and made certain our magazines were topped off. Satisfied with everyone's readiness, Tommy last turned to Canti.

"Well? You want in on this? Or do you wanna sit out? Either way, your choice."

"If by shooting, then no." Canti's screen replied. "But if there's another way I can help, I will." Tommy looked around and spotted half a bulldozer blade we'd been cutting chunks off for scrap. "Can you carry that?" It weighed at least a thousand pounds.

"That I can do." Canti picked up the blade, sufficiently hidden behind it with ample room to spare.

"Excellent! Mike, see this hole here? That'll be your firing port, and Rig, you'll be on this side to keep him and Canti from getting flanked." I didn't realize it at the moment, but Tommy probably put me behind the safer side of three inches of steel for a reason. "Good, good…everyone kosher?" Tommy went down his mental checklist. "Okay Josh, is the PA system working?"

"Stage is all yours." Tommy took the mic and made one last appeal to the boys in blue outside.

. . .

"Attention officers of the State Patrol!" The shop's loudspeaker crackled, still active. Corporal Warren, now the ranking officer with all six months of experience, had been trying to organize the remnants of the Task Force. Now someone inside the shop was bloviating at them again. "Attention officers of the State Patrol!"

"This's Corporal Warren, commanding officer!" He had to keep one shoulder on Sergeant Peterson to keep the corpse off the loudspeaker controls. "Have you decided to come quietly?"

"Far from it, Corporal Warren. This is your last chance to surrender and receive the fairest trail the Galactic Court can offer. And since you've all put up such an admirable fight, I will write a letter of commendation on your behalf. But this is an offer that'll go fast. Take it or leave it."

"Carson, I have my _orders_ , and I intend to follow them! Now either come out, or we're going to drag you out!"

"From where I stand, I count forty-one dead Pennsylvanians. Do not force us to make it forty-two."

"There's no way out, we've, we've got you surrounded!"

"Bull-fucking-shit you do. We've got more cameras 'round here than an Amsterdam peep show. You've got 'bout twenty odd of you left, all right in _MY FAMILY'S_ yard."

"We still outnumber you, two to one!"

"I'm sorry, but what's your point?" That one stung.

"Y-you, you might get us, but we've got half the county comin' down the road! They'll be here any minute, and once they've seen this mess you've made, they won't be as patient or understanding as I am."

"Corporal, please stop lying. We've been jamming your radios. There are no reinforcements coming. It's just you…and us."

"You cheating, cowardly bastards!" Corporal Warren, tired, frustrated, and certainly not trained in negotiations, lost his cool. "Come out and fight! Instead of hiding in your hole, come out and fight us like men!"

"…Oke-ah-doke. **Have it your way**. We'll do _just that_. Josh, spin that shit."

. . .

Tommy tossed Josh back the mic and both readied up with us at the door. I pulled back the bolt on my rifle, checking for sure a round was chambered, and also verified for the tenth time the selector lever was midway down in Full-Auto. For an odd second, it was blissfully quiet. Just the forced shallow breathing to calm our nerves, and the creaking clinks of our Ned Kelly's. Then the music started.

. . .

 _**Perhaps you had better start from the beginning…m-heh-heh-heh…_

 _Perhaps you had better start from the beginning…m-heh-heh-heh-heh…_

 _Perhaps you had better start from the beginning…m-heh-heh-heh…_

 _Perhaps you had better start from the beginning…m-heh-heh-heh…_

 _Perhaps you had better start from the beginning…_

As a skeptical Peter Cushing's voice repeated, grisly organs and groaning tunes crept from the loudspeakers, all lights on the property except the ones facing the police, went out. A heavy metallic pounding sounded in addition to the music, and the shop's left bay door began to open. Even in the brightness of lights shining in their eyes and in the door's shadow, the officers could make out a pair of massive robotic feet, then legs, knees, torso…

"Holy fuckin' shit! What _IS_ that thing?!"

"I-I dunno!" Corporal Warren was rendered useless at the sight.

"It's moving, coming right at us!" Now wailing, tortured and screaming guitar and chest-thudding drums blasted with directed volume, deafening all outside. A hulking machine, humanoid in form but terrifying in scale, marched forth while swinging in its hands an eight foot section of steel beam. Painted red and towering above their MRAP's, the police couldn't decide what to do in facing a Medical Mechanica Industrial for the very first time.

"C-Corporal! What do we do?! CORPORAL?!"

"Shoot, shoot the Goddamn _thing!_ _ **SHOOT!**_ " As they threw up a ballistic reply, the State Police were vividly reminded the metal giant had backup. Seven more figures emerged from behind it, using it was a walking tank for cover. Each newcomer was clad head to toe in heavy plates of overlapping steel; armored suits weighing at least a hundred pounds of metal. As two ports in the shop reignited with gunfire, four of the figures drew back and lobbed grenades before the whole group opened fire; drowning the yard in muzzle blasts.

 _We all go down for the Sacrificial Moment!_

 _Crucifixion Nails stain the bed of The Holy!_

 _Space-thing blues, diamond-studded, sugar-coated!_

 _Well I am HELL, a miracle overloadin'!_

 _TURRRNNN Me on , Yeah!_

 _A Electric Head all over!_

 _TURRRNNN Me on, Yeah!_

 _A Electric Head all over!_

Corporal Warren helplessly looked on as the, the… _thing_ approached the MRAP closest to it. The truck's roof gunner fired his M240 until the barrel glowed, the rounds plinking against a hastily welded shell of double-layered inch thick steel plates. The robot raised its steel beam and brought it down on the MRAP's roof. With a crackling squelch, the machinegun was silenced while the MRAP was nearly bisected. Finding its weapon stuck fast, the Industrial leaned back and used a push of its heel to roll the MRAP over, crushing two more police in cover behind it. Then it swung its glowing eye gaze the way of Corporal Warren, and advanced.

. . .

I've never been the biggest White Zombie, or Rob Zombie, fan but when it works, does it deliver. When that door opened, our strategy was loosely based on whichever way the Industrial went. The idea was to have Canti, Mike, and I, on its left and use Mike's RPK to suppress the cops behind their vehicles. Johnny, Josh, Shifty, and Tommy, would all go on the right, around the vehicles and hit the police flank. Simple in theory…

The suits we were wearing were made of half-inch heat-treated and hardened steel plates, all over a coat and pants of Kevlar weave, and both hung on a harness of nylon and leather straps. It'll shrug off your 0.38's, 9mm's, 0.40's, and 0.45's, and most 5.56mm standard ball. One problem is every hit feels like getting slugged with a baseball bat. The first hit I took skated off my shoulder, leaving an ugly bruise from the divot knocked into the steel, the same with my right knee, then a third bounced off my helmet with a dull _K-Whrungg…_ A few slivers spalled off and cut into each section hit, soaking my right arm, leg, and right side of my face before my boot started filling with blood. But the Ned Kelly, as we called them, did its job and kept me gaping and sucking wound free.

Canti, self-limited as his role was, did an awesome job. If he was capable of being scared, he didn't show it. Mike called out adjustments, forward, left, right, stop, and Canti flawlessly carried our shield. I'm still not sure what he was thinking, but I'm glad he agreed to help.

Across the way, things were mixed. I saw both Josh and Shifty take hits. Josh had his left leg knocked sideways, but managed to stay upright. A round had found a weak point on the flat of his outer thigh plate, and a second one the same on his calf. Struggling and stumbling forward at half-speed, he trailed a ditch dug with a dragging foot; filling it with splotches as he pressed forward.

 _Get inside, get in there!_

 _Well, Evil in your eyes Baby, I don't care!_

 _Get inside, get in there! Yeah!_

 _We'll see the Flesh fallin' everywhere!_

Shifty took a buckshot pattern to his left arm, one of the pellets finding a gap in the plates. It went into his bicep, bounced off his humerus, and came out his triceps. It then ricocheted off his triceps' armor and _reentered_ the muscle. And at the same time, his magazine ran dry. With no sling, he had to drop to his right knee, with left arm clenched to his chest, and as he did, tucked his AK behind his bent right knee; pinning it by the barrel, upside down, so the magazine stuck up at the sky. He knocked the empty mag loose and left it, drew another, rocked and locked it, charged back the bolt, then stood and swung the rifle back to his shoulder, and continued to fire one-handed…all like he'd done it ten thousand times and it was a mild inconvenience. Meanwhile, the Industrial still rampaged and the music still cranked.

 _We all go down for a piece of the moment!_

 _Watch another burn to the death, to the Core!_

 _And the Roadshow thrills, packs the Freaks and the Phonies!_

 _Singin' now is now! Yeah, all I ever wanted!_

 _TURRRNNN Me on, Yeah!_

 _A Electric Head all over!_

 _TURRRNNN Me on, Yeah!_

 _A Electric Head all over!_

The only reason the Industrial held up as long as it did was the extra plates we had spot welded on; most on its center of mass. Before we swept the field, the Troopers got in some good hits on it, figuring out quickly its limbs were its weakest points. It still managed to swat two of them out of its way, crushed a third underfoot, kicked in the cabin of the second MRAP, then pulled the vehicle's turret right the ever lovin' fuck off; ripping half the roof with it. The last turret gunner swung his sights squarely on the Industrial, and went cyclical. A two hundred round long burst sent spinning ricochets whipping and zinging every damn which way in a brilliant shower of orange tracers. Half its face shot away, bleeding hydraulic fluid, the Industrial died a second death, thudding to the ground hard enough to make the stones bounce.

"Canti! Angle the blade!" Mike ordered and Canti adjusted us to a forty five degree, side-stepping, angle to the last turret. With a handful of Troopers left fighting with admirable ferocity, the turret gunner swung 'round to us; while Shifty, Tommy, Johnny, and Josh took cover behind the Industrial's corpse. From there they duked it out with the last pocket of resistance.

A machinegun duel at under fifty yards is an awesome spectacle that'll put the Fear of God into anyone. Mike and the last M240 swapped shots, their orange tracers versus Mike's green. Three inches of steel vibrated against my left shoulder, drumming rounds looking for enough purchase to penetrate. But angled as we were, the rounds were bouncing off, sailing into the morning gloom as dimming, super-sonic fireflies. Finally, enough rounds were thrown his way that the gunner caught one with his dome and disappeared down into his MRAP's crew compartment.

"Did we get 'em? Is it over?!"

"Don't relax yet!"

"SHIT!" Someone across the yard yelled before cutting loose a sharp burst of AK fire. "Tried to jump me!" Ah, t'was Johnny. My hearing was severely diminished, feeling like my head was inside a ringing Big Ben.

"Clear the area, then clear the dead and check for wounded!" Tommy ordered. After a quick look around, no one else was to be seen. In the distance, as my hearing came back, echoing bursts of gunfire could be heard, sirens wailing throughout. They weren't our priority at the moment, as long as they didn't come up the driveway. Now we checked the bodies for dead, pretend dead, and wounded.

"Got a live one!" Josh announced, holding his rifle square on a Trooper's forehead. He was pinned under the Industrial's arm; just enough to keep him there, but he was otherwise uninjured. Soiled skivvies notwithstanding. "Two live ones! Second's in bad shape!"

"Good! Hey, you hurt at all, can you get out from under there?" Tommy joined Josh and I, focusing on the conscious Trooper while Mike, Johnny, and Shifty grabbed the other.

"W-what do you, th-thi-think?!" His face was hidden behind a balaclava and goggles, but a dumb, deaf, and blind man could tell he surely thought we were gonna shoot him. I have no illusions he would have if it were any of us under that Industrial's arm. But hey, a squad of primitive Iron Men and their Rock-Em, Sock-Em had just wiped out his task force; and with a soundtrack to boot. "If I'd could'ah gotten loose, I would've."

"Fair enough. Canti, do you think you could lift this?" Canti obliged, lifting up the Industrial's arm to the man could wriggle out. Halfway out, he sat up and had, not a lightbulb moment…more of a _candle_ moment; and it got him burned. The Trooper decided he would draw his pistol, bear with me, it gets better. Draw his pistol, and aim it not at Josh, Tommy, or me, but at _CANTI_ …and fire off a round that bounced off Canti's shoulder with a deflationary _ting._ Canti, I would imagine offended and repulsed by such dumb-fuckery, and wanting no part in or of it, first dropped the Industrial's arm, right on the Trooper's foot; crushing it. Second, he formed a perfect first and with no warning drawback, socked the Trooper square on the nose with a soul-satisfying _THR-Whack!_ He fell backwards right onto his back, and decided a nap was his best plan.

"Okay… _Hooo-uuacchht!_ " Tommy spat a dark blob of something bloody. "Fine. Be that way. Josh, Rig. Drag his ass inside. Mike, get with Johnny when he's done and help him set up security with Kamon and Shigekuni. Josh, Shifty, see Rita and have her look at those wounds. Rig, when you're done, help Rita okay?"

"Got…huhghghhh…it." I said as Josh and I dragged Trooper Attitude by his arms. "What about you?"

"I'm gonna first switch off our jammer, then get on the radio, maybe phone, see if service is still up or if the cops have shut it down. Then get ahold of our friends and find out who is still with us. After that…well…we'll burn that bridge when we come to it."

. . .

* * *

*The Game - Motorhead

**Electric Head Pt. 1 (The Agony) - White Zombie

I have used Electric Head before, once in Redneck of Roanapur; where it had been used originally in the Black Lagoon manga (sadly not in the anime!) The heaviest my metal gets is around Judas Priest, so I don't know any really good 'head-bangin', smash 'em up, shoot 'em down' songs with lyrics. The soundtracks to Quake II and the new DOOM are good...but lack words. But Electric Head (The Agony) is one I find myself coming back to. The lyrics don't make sense when you write them down...but man does it make you feel badass.

Cole's powerlust paranoia seems to be getting the better of him, it's like he's forgotten the big picture of what he's involved in, and is only focused on securing the ground he stands on. How well that will go over with the officer corps of the State Patrol, the other sergeants, lieutenants, and his captain, seems open and shut. But will he be able to pull it off?

In other news, we go live to...holy crap, is that Naota stealing a sheriff's car?! Look at that kid go, has he got some balls, or what?! Desperate times and all, but who'd-ah thunk it? Looking back at this moment, I wish I could have fanangled him using his bass to some effect on those deputies...but act of mischief at a time!

Finally, I hope you've still got ahold of your helmet. Now that the guns are out, and we can FINALLY get over the pre-party and to the real-deal, you're gonna need it. Please let me know how this trio of chapters held up, if they stood on their own, or where refinement is needed, questions that have come up. Until next time, thank you for reading, and I really think we should do this again sometime. How does December sound?


	20. Chapter 20

Hey, what's happening? Yeah, I'm not dead! Although there have been days I felt like the old man in the 'Not Dead Yet' scene from Monty Python. "There, he says he's not dead." "Yes he is." "No, I'm not!" "Ee isn't?" "Well, he will be soon, he's very ill." "I'm getting better!" "No you're not, you'll be stone dead in a moment." I rang in the New Year with food poisoning at 0300 hours, then a few weeks later rolled my car into the ditch (black ice is no joke), and have recently contracted some lung gunk/stuffy nose/coughing crud. So, things are a little behind schedule. BUT! We are moving forward, just not as fast as I'd like. So, without further delay, FLCL: TPW comes in from the wilderness with new chapters! Please enjoy!

* * *

. . .

Patrolman Hynen had been assigned what amounted to guard duty. Technically speaking, he was held in reserve as part of the Quick Relief Force to reinforce any Task Force in the field. In reality, he and other officers that had drawn short straws were stuck at the State Police station. This ensured he had a front-row seat when Sergeant Kauffman and the Mobile Command Center began surrounding the building.

"Yo, Hynen. Are you seein' this?"

"Seein' what?" Hynen had his feet up, Autotrader Magazine in hand. He was considering an advertised CJ-8 Scrambler. Condition: MINT! Or so the advert claimed. The Officer on Duty dragged him to the lobby desk's bank of CCTV feeds. The station was being encircled by fellow troopers, and the M.C.C. truck had pulled up outside.

"Why're all the Command guys here?" Hynen watched them disembark their vehicle and march up the front steps. He did not fail to see their grim faces, or drawn weapons. "The look plenty pissed about _something._ "

"Damn right. Better call Chojnacki; there's something wrong with this picture." The Duty Officer lifted his phone. "Captain, it's Corporal Haines at the front desk. Is the M.C.C. supposed to be returning already? I thought so. Well sir, they're outside _right now,_ and with guns drawn. Yes sir, I am serious. No sir, I am NOT joking. They're almost to the front door and…"

"Phone down and hands up!" The first of the M.C.C. entered the lobby. Each had their pistol or issued long arm at high ready. "Put the phone down, _NOW!_ "

"Put that fuckin' piece away Trooper!" Corporal Haines was used to telling others what to do, and aiming his gun at them. It was unnerving to be the one staring down a gun barrel and being screamed at for a change; and he didn't much care for it. "All of you! What the hell's going on?! Have you lost your damn min-…" _BANG!_

"Hands up, Hynen; or you're next." Shot at a range of five feet, Corporal Haines' brain evacuated at the back of his head and fanned across the station's great seal on the wall behind the desk. Hynen decided the M.C.C. really were serious.

"You got it, Barnes." Hynen correctly assumed the M.C.C. weren't there for him. They'd have shot him straight away if they were. His best option was to play along, and maybe even find out what was going on. The M.C.C., more of them streaming in and taking up positions, relieved him of his pistol and ammunition, OC spray, handcuffs, and T-handle. He was pointed to a corner of the lobby with a handful of others, then told 'stay there and don't you damn move.'

. . .

"Sergeant, we're in for a world of hurt." Chojnacki was watching a security feed on his computer. Perks of being Chief of the State Patrol.

"You mean besides Haines getting popped?" One the Sergeants that had been assigned to stay behind that night peered out the door and down the hall. "Christ, I still can't believe they did that! _What's_ going on?!"

"I'm not sure, but I know _HE_ is at the bottom of it." Chojnacki watched Cole Kauffman stroll into the station as if he owned the place.

"Kauffman? Didn't he just get promoted?"

"Yes, and it seems the little bump in power went to his head." He lifted the phone and dialed for the PA system. "Sergeant Kauffman, this's Captain Chojnacki speaking. I don't know what's put the burr up your ass, but shooting Haines and taking over the station is NOT how to deal with it. If you would please disband the M.C.C. and come to my office, we can discuss this…" Three more gunshots echoed down the halls, a pause, then four more. "Alright, be that way. All Troopers who can hear me: barricade and fortify your positions. Kauffman and the M.C.C. are attempting a coup. Defend your lives and this station."

"Captain, are you serious? A coup?!"

"What else is there?" The Sergeant shrugged in agreement and drew his pistol. With his orders given, Chojnacki now dialed for the Sheriff's office. It was a slim hope a posse of deputies could be assembled to assist. There was no signal on the phone, Cole had the M.C.C. throttle the line. No help was coming. "Damn it, where's that blasted Man in Black?!"

. . .

'Well now…that can't be right…' The Man was on scene of a shootout between the Osceola Mills P.D. and a band of determined civilians. The police were clearing up the mess, the civilians had taken their shots and departed. He'd opened his pocketwatch to check the time and stock of events. He scowled at what he saw, grinding his teeth in growing annoyance. 'No…no, no…no…it's all wrong.' The hands were on the incorrect headings, the small orbs were out of alignment. He held it up to his ear and heard a faithful ticking. Nothing on the watch was broken, which only meant ill tidings.

"Sir, there's been an order over the radio." One of the Osceola Mills' officers approached. The Man, thinking hard, said nothing. "It's s'posed to be from the State Patrol; Sergeant Kauffman. We've been ordered into full retreat. Sir?"

"…" The Man's thumb hovered over the pocketwatch's smallest face, the one at the bottom of its body. He was loathe to press it. Surely, this was somehow all in error? Cole had not failed him in any way so far, so why this, and why now? He actually thought well of Cole; he had the correct attitude for an Officer of the Red Star Interior Police.

"Sir? Are you alright? Can you hear…?"

"Officer, a moment's peace, if you would. Thank you."

"Sorry, Sir." The officer backed off. Behind them the rest of the team had cleared the small battlefield and was ready to leave. Then the officer's radio crackled.

"OM-PDD to Task Force Alpha-Four. Task Force Alpha-Four, come in."

"Dispatch, this's Corporal Rohrs; Alpha-Four acting command. Go ahead."

"Rohrs, it's Charlie. Are you anywhere near The Man? Last I heard he was with you."

"He's right here, a little busy. Can I take a message? What's going on?"

"We're getting calls from State guys claiming their M.C.C. has surrounded their station, and isn't letting anyone in or out. A few shots have been heard in the building, but none of the M.C.C.'s saying anything."

"Are there any contacts, any comms channels open to the station?"

"Nothing. Complete radio silence, and the phones are all giving us a busy signal."

"Roger that. I'll pass it along to our Man and we'll go from there. Stand by."

"Standing by."

"Sir, you caught all that, right?"

"Yes, Corporal Rohrs, I did." The Man heaved a bitter sigh. "Nothing left now but to clean up yet another mess." He muttered while closing his eyes and pressing the pocketwatch's smallest face with his thumb. A blink of time later, the pocketwatch was stowed and The Man on the move. He joined Corporal Rohrs in the crew compartment of the last departing MRAP. Their column was southwestern bound for Osceola Mills. Corporal Rohrs wondered why The Man wasn't redirecting them East/Southeast towards Port Matilda and the State Patrol station. He thought better of it, deciding not to question The Man's judgement, and kept quiet.

"Goddamn, what a shit-show." One of the other officers remarked. He scratched at the bandages wrapped around his head. "Ten years on the job, _never_ had a night this messed up. Total F.U.B.A.R." The others nodded in grim accord while the MRAP's trundled along. The wounded officer opened a pouch on his harness and extracted a pack of Camel 99's.

"Hey, smokin's not allowed in…" One of the others began to remind, but saw The Man's waved hand.

"After the morning you brave troopers have had, I'd say you've earned it." The Man's smile brightened the gloomy compartment. "May I?" The officer shook up a cigarette and extended the pack. The Man took the offered cigarette and used his own lighter; the lighter usually reserved for burning orders and messages. A too-heavy drag pulled in a lungful of unfiltered smoke. Not wanting to appear foolish, The Man resisted as long as he could; trying to appear aloof.

"Sir, you're turning green." One brave officer observed aloud.

"…M-hack! Hack! Uhgh-ghuh-hack! By Syrinx! How many of these do you smoke a day?!" The Man let out the smoke as his lungs protested. Smoking, seen as an unhealthy and disgusting habit, was banned within The Red Star's borders, by decree of The Priests. Left unspoken were rules on drinking and smoking _outside_ The Red Star; however.

"Pack a day. I've cut back from two."

"It's a wonder you can still breathe at all." The Man marveled. He had another pull, lighter this time.

"I thought you didn't smoke, Sir?"

"Oh, I don't." Everyone grinned a little. There were lots of things officers did, that they didn't. "But I'm about to do something terribly upsetting to me, and I've seen how some of you Humans smoke to calm down; so I thought I'd try one myself to see if it would help."

"What're you doing that's so upsetting? If it's not out of place to ask?"

"A thread has come unraveled." The Man was typically cryptic. Another drag. Somehow, the taste was growing on him. "And loose threads are snipped before they cause trouble. That is all."

"I don't think we need to be bothering with anymore business questions right now." Corporal Rohrs sensed a secretive nature to The Man's answers. The other officers nodded and decided they were on a need to know basis; and didn't need to know. "Right, Sir?"

"Correct, Corporal Rohrs. Do not worry yourselves with my troubles."

"But…Sir, the State Patrol?"

"As I said, worry not." The Man soothed. "With The Priest's wisdom as our guide, The Red Star shall provide." The MRAP's continued on.

. . .

"Is he breathing? He was when we brought him in."

"I don't think so."

"Jeff, either he is, or he isn't."

"Right...he ain't."

"Okay, checking airway…" Johnny peered down the wounded officer's throat, shining a flashlight to see. We had him on one of the welding tables. Josh and Shifty shared a second, and George had the third to himself. Welding tables are not the most sanitary platforms, but they were empty, level surfaces. "It looks clear. Turn him on his side." Johnny pushed while Kamon and I pulled to roll the officer onto his side, hopefully to clear whatever was stuck in his throat or lungs. Still no signs of movement. "Get his gear off. We'll have to check his chest."

"Kamon, hold this." I pulled my knife and started cutting straps. I tossed Kamon first a plate carrier and vest, then uniform, then undershirt and compression wear. "Dump it over there, then come straight back."

"Good God, that's ugly." This was one of the officer's swatted by the Industrial's backhand. His chest was deflated, concave almost, and turning purple and black with bruises. He would have fared better getting hit by a car; at least the fiberglass would have some give to it. A solid steel fist offered no such mercy. "I can't tell if…wait, hang on…there might be a tiny pulse, wait, no, lost it. Get the A.E.D., Kamon, now!"

"Got it, here." We hooked him up, one pad near the right shoulder, the other below his left pectoral. There was a slim chance he had a shockable rhythm, but we had to try. The A.E.D. scanned, scanned, then scanned some more for at least three eternities.

"Shockable rhythm detected. Shock advised. Charging. Stand back!"

"Back up, back up! Keep away from the table!" The welding table, a slab of solid steel, would transmit any charge from the A.E.D. and the officer, straight into any of us touching it. Then we'd have another casualty.

"Charging. Delivering shock. CLEAR." _Kr-thmp._ The officer twitched slightly. Johnny began CPR with thirty compressions and two breaths. Two minutes later the A.E.D. bade him to stop. "Scanning. Shockable rhythm detected. Shock advised. Charging. Stand back!" We were already clear, so now we just waited.

"Rig, your turn on CPR after it shocks."

"Got it." We were going to switch on and off. If you do it right, CPR will wear you out. It will also crack your patient's ribs, but his already were, so that was out of the way; I guess.

"Charging. Delivering shock. CLEAR." _Kr-thmp._ Again the officer wriggled a little, but didn't fully wake, sit up and laude us with his thanks. I began compressions. The weirdest feeling is the crunching and crackling of bones under your hands. It feels so wrong, you know you're basically mashing his heart and are breaking ribs. But that's how you manhandle a heart to beating again, aside from cutting him open and pumping the heart with a machine; or even by hand. Already his skin felt cool, and his lips were starting to turn blue. I finished my two minutes and let the machine take over again.

"Stop CPR. Scanning. Scanning. Shockable rhythm detected. Shock advised. Charging. Stand back!"

"Kamon, if you're up to it, it'll be your turn next. Are you willing to do that?"

"Y-yes. Yes, I am."

"Good. Get ready then." Johnny handed him the mouth shield so Kamon wouldn't have to make skin to skin contact.

"Charging. Delivering shock. CLEAR." _Kr-thmp._ So much for third time's the charm. Kamon began his thirty compressions. Now Tommy came over to see how we were getting on. He requested Kamon to let him look. He made the same checks. Airway was clear, but no breathing. Pulse intermittent, fluttering and weak. With a flashlight shone in his eyes, the officer's pupils were unresponsive. Tommy gave a final once-over from tip to toe, looking for anything else that could be a problem. Finding none, he made a final call.

"Johnny, Jeff, Kamon. You've done all you can. Move him over there with his equipment, and wrap him with the tarp. We have our own wounded to tend to."

"Tommy, can't we give the A.E.D. one more…" Johnny started to ask.

"I am not asking you, Sergeant. That's enough. Move and cover him, then help Rita. _Now_."

"…Yes, Captain." Johnny conceded. "Rig, get his feet. Kamon, lay the tarp down would you? Okay Rig, got him? On three then. One, two, three!"

. . .

Urban Dictionary defines a Clusterfuck thusly: "A military term for an operation in which multiple things have gone wrong. It is related to 'SNAFU' (Situation Normal, All Fucked Up) and 'FUBAR' (Fucked Up Beyond All Repair). In radio communication or polite conversation (i.e. with a very senior officer with whom you have no prior experience) the term 'clusterfuck' will often be replaced by the NATO phonetic acronym 'Charlie Foxtrot'."

We weren't quite there yet, a clusterfuck, but just barely so. The spalled slivers in my leg, shoulder and head Shigekuni pulled out with pliers. He also rewrapped the bandages I'd done around my head; its cut wouldn't stop bleeding. Every heartbeat sent a little leak of blood down my face. To be fair, it was a head wound, and they just bleed; it's what they do. With two wounds in it, Josh's leg had swollen with blood and fluid. It was starting to turn funny colors as it pushed against his armor; a kind of yellow-purple. We couldn't undo the straps, so we cut the plates off him with an angle grinder. His leg was now neatly wrapped, splinted, and propped, while he monitored the police radio traffic. Shifty was a stable walking wounded, but could not move his left arm. At all. From the shoulder on down, nothing. Both the bicep and triceps were torn and his fingertips tingled from damaged nerves. With his arm in a sling, he stood guard with Mike and Kamon outside. All three swapped lies about previous women in their lives and nervously chain smoked to soothe jittery nerves. Rita, Johnny, and Canti were focused on George. The second state trooper we'd quickly tied to a chair. The something bloody Tommy had spat up was from one of his ribs; one cracked during the fight in Clyde's basement. A shotgun slug had slammed into his armor and from the dent in the steel, it had re-cracked the rib and given him a small cut in his lung. While he wasn't up to running, he could still move quickly. He was able to establish contact with the others and began getting updates. Meanwhile, I took a timeout from everything to FINALLY put on some damn pants.

"…Many made it in?" Tommy was asking as I reentered the shop. Ah…to have jeans on again. I took over guard duty of the second state trooper, my rifle trained on his forehead.

"We're doing another headcount now." Mr. Pike reported through a voice chat on the computer. The phones were not working, either shut down or destroyed, and radio was surely being monitored by now. "After the first count, it looks like I'm missing at least fifty."

"We're only missing fifty? It sounds morbid, but if that's all, then…"

"No, Tommy. **_I_** am missing at least fifty. Just me. Everyone else is more or less the same."

"Oh. It, it's still early yet. More will trickle in as the dust settles."

"I agree. But with the phones down, it's been impossible to get ahold of anyone we haven't counted yet. In one hour we'll have an updated head count."

"Thank you very much Mister Pike. Let us know of anything going on or changing _immediately_ , and stay safe!"

"I'll pass the word along, and the same goes to you too. Semper Fi. Out."

. . .

Naota sneezed himself awake. He'd only been asleep an hour or so. It was just barely getting light out. His body ached and throbbed, especially his back and fingertips. The ripped open nailbeds had finally scabbed over, but still felt like they'd been smashed with a hammer. Bleary eyes are hard to open, but he forced them to even as they itched for want of sleep. Everything was as he'd found it, nothing in the small cave had been disturbed. A mouse, finding its mattress home occupied by an uninvited guest, scratched in the leaves by the door. Slowly blinking, Naota tried to clear his vision. Small slivers of blue lines faded in and out, tracing from object to object, wall to wall, floor to ceiling. It was the same phenomenon as strands of a spider's web catching the morning sun's rays at just the right angle. He assumed it was an exhausted and paranoid brain playing tricks on itself. So he rolled over and went back to sleep.

. . .

"How's it coming up there?!" Cole yelled down the hallway. An acetylene torch from the motor pool was melting their way through a steel security door. On the other side waited the station's central control room and the offices of the lieutenants and Captain Chojnacki.

"Almost through, gimme…thirty seconds!"

"Breaching team, front and center; ready up!" The officers inside the station who had decided to fight Cole and his mutineers, had been doing so with desperate ferocity. They surmised correctly they were surrounded and outnumbered, and their only hope was to hold on long enough for a posse of deputies, or another department to arrive and break the siege. Meanwhile, they had armed themselves with the light machineguns from the armory, using primarily a pair of M240's and a collection M16A4's to turn their section of the building into a Gibraltar; and had racked up eleven kills and twice as many wounded thus far to prove it. Worse, no one in Cole's crew could remember if there were any AT4's still inside the armory. Once through the door, they'd find out.

"Cutting's done! Ready for breaching." The door still smoked and heat rolled off as the breachers hefted their shields. Finding volunteers to join him hadn't been hard, Cole was delighted to find. Gallons of police blood had been spilt that morning, many thought needlessly. They wanted, demanded, someone to take the fall; and Cole seemed to have all the answers.

"Standby! Three…two…ONE!" The charges finished the torch's work and troopers surged into the hallway, the offices just ahead. At the far end, someone fired his M16. The rounds thudded against their shields, one failing to punch through, but breaking the officer's forearm, while drywall and concrete chips rained down from misses and ricochets. A vicious counter-fire left the shooter shattered and splattered against the wall; their half-blown off face unrecognizable. Now Cole was counting doors, forcing himself to remember the right one.

'One…two…three…' Chojnacki's office. The nameplate said so. "Three, this's it! Ready to breach!" It was paramount Cole gained control of the office, and the man inside. Both contained information, passcodes, a keycard and safe access. All would give their holder unquestionable authority; especially when he would be able to strip legal police authority, and all pay and benefits of anyone who got out of line. There was also the safe's contents. Cole knew The Man had to have given Chojnacki _something_ to store. Orders, deals or contracts with The Red Star, Letters of Marque, promises once the fighting was over, personal effects, or maybe even some kind of secret weapon! The possibilities were only limited by Cole's avarice, and were just behind the door!

"Knock-Knock, Cap'n!" The door crumpled under the ram, and a plume of smoke roiled out. Immediately following the falling door was a burst of staccato gunfire. The shield bearers stumbled and the stack faltered as slugs slammed into the shields, one trooper falling as a round blew out his knee…and then the shooter's magazine ran empty. Stun grenades were tossed in, using the lull to get close again. Cole demanded Chojnacki alive, and the assault began. It was short. Three UMP-45's riddled the Sergeant behind the great oak desk; an old 1921 Thompson from the arms locker clattered to the floor. In the far corner, next to the floor safe, a dazed Chojnacki continued burning the safe's contents in the trash can. Cole kicked the trashcan over, scattering its smoldering contents and putting out the fire. He and another officer seized Chojnacki and threw him into his chair, where he was covered by six submachine guns.

"Call them off, Captain." Cole pushed the phone towards him. "Order them to stand down."

"No, Sergeant. I won't." An M240 began firing in the next hallway over.

"Your men are dying, Captain." The M240 abruptly ceased. "Will you let them keep dying to hold onto your failed command just a few seconds longer?"

"You'll kill them to take it from me?!"

"I already have! What's another ten or twenty backstabbers, more loyal to a politicking, unelected appointee, than to their fraternity?"

"You've gone fuckin' nuts, off the rails! What is _with_ you?" Chojnacki's face had drained of life to a funeral pallor. "Is all this so you can take over the State Patrol, to be a lord over a miniscule fief?! Is that _IT?!_ "

"It is what I am owed!"

"On what grounds, on what basis?!"

"A repayment of you, and your scheming lieutenants, setting me up to fail, to disgrace me in front of The Man, so you could overstep me in my place!"

"And you all followed this lunatic?" Chojnacki was stunned at the number of coconspirators bodying up his office. "If Cole jumped off a bridge, would you follow him down?"

"Yours are following you off a bridge right now, Captain." The gunfire outside was growing in volume as the ring of defenders shrank. "Off the bridge of moral self-righteousness, all because you're being stubborn and won't give me what's mine."

"Cole, with all the racket you've made, you can bet your ass The Man's on his way already. If I refuse you, you're going to shoot me; I can tell. If I cave to your demands, The Man brands me rightly as a traitor, and he doesn't strike me as the understanding type; and he'll do _much, **MUCH**_ worse to a traitor than shoot him. If I am to die, it will be with my dignity intact."

"Have it your way." Cole gave the two guards at the door a curt nod. They disappeared into the haze filled offices. "Since you're so determined to die either way, I'll make living as uncomfortable for you as possible. Put him right here, hands on the desk. You, right here." The guards had returned with one of the captured officers. Blood from a shallow gash on his head covered most of his face, what wasn't streaked with terrified tears.

"What're you doing? Let him go, he has nothing to do with this; this's between me and you. It's not his fault."

"You're right. It's your fault. Okay, let's start with pinkies and work inward." The guards arranged the man's hands so only his pinky fingers were on the polished, solid oak desk. "What's your name?"

"M, M, M-Morgan…" He managed to stammer out.

"Morgan. I want you to look the good Captain right in the eye, like you're telling him your darkest secrets." Cole knelt beside Morgan and pointed at Chojnacki. "Look him in the eye and tell him: This is your fault."

"Th-this, this's your fault…oh god…"

"Hit 'em." At Cole's word, the door battering ram was brought down on Patrolman Morgan's left pinky finger. A solid tube of steel encased concrete crushed the digit between it and a solid oak desk. Morgan's scream worked its way to the front hall; causing Patrolman Hynen to cringe at the thought of the pain causing such a sound.

"These are just his fingers, there's a whole lot more we can crush that'll hurt a whole lot more!"

"No, no-no-no, no, NO! Why're you doing this?!"

"Nothing, Chojnacki? Okay. Next pinky. Ready! Say it, Morgan…"

"Please don't let him do this Captain, it's not worth it!"

"I need to hear you telling him whose fault this is!"

"Don't make him do this! This's sick, you're just a damn bloodthirsty coyote!"

"Morgan, say it or we start pulling fingernails."

"Goddammit…this's, this's your fault!" Morgan howled as his second pinky went the way of the first.

"Don't make me take his trigger finger and thumbs too!" Cole admonished as the grisly end of the ram was readied again. "Have a heart!"

"Alright, alright already!" Chojnacki's hands shook as he lifted the phone. "I'm sorry Morgan, but this has to end somehow." Chojnacki pressed the PA button and gave the order. Shooting in the building ceased.

"Very good. See, that wasn't so hard. Now, dial eight to get outside, then for Sheriff Sarabyn. You'll be telling him you cannot continue as commander of the State Patrol, and are passing command to me. Go ahead." Cole motioned with his pistol at the phone, now holding it level with Chojnacki's head. The Captain sighed, looking between Cole, the phone, Cole's H&K-45, back to Cole, then the phone. He dialed eight, then a series of numbers. He waited while it rang, then took a deep breath as the other end picked up.

"It's Cole Kauffman! They're taking over the station! Send everyone before he…!" Chojnacki had dialed the direct line to the Sheriff's dispatch and the Duty Officer had immediately picked up. He didn't get to finish all of his warning. Realizing what was happening, Cole blasted the phone's cradle to bits with two shots, then swung the front sight back onto his Captain's nose. _Bah-BANG-BANG…BANG!_ Chojnacki jerked away from his chair, spinning it around, and collapsed face down on the floor. Cole ripped off the safe keys around his neck, then fished out his wallet, password card, and keycards. With a room of devout troopers as witnesses, he entered himself into the database as the State Patrol's commander, and changed all passwords to only ones he knew.

A sense of warming calm slipped through him. The bud of contentment filled his heart with glee, and his face with a smile. It was his, all his to himself, and to command at his will and whim! The other departments would as a matter of course see the writing on the wall, and know where their best hopes lay. How fitting, how deserved and rightful indeed, the eldest son of an alcoholic would climb to command the Pennsylvania State Patrol of his hometown; especially when those he'd counted as allies were really jealous rivals. But now…as he looked around the room…how many of these troopers with him could he _really_ trust? How many were just trying to ride his coattails? Already Cole wondered which of the Corporals, or surviving Sergeants, would be the first to challenge him…

. . .

"How's he doing Canti?"

"Not well. Look." Canti pointed to the images of George's brain displayed on his screen. "Your Uncle has a terrible concussion, along with bleeding in and on his brain. His brain is beginning to swell, and requires surgery immediately."

"We're not set up for that in-depth of an operation here." Rita was thinking of options, any options. She'd already taken care of us, and reset the bones in the trooper's broken foot. But George seemed beyond her power as our EMT to fix. Cutting into her husband's skull, on a metal-dusted steel table covered in four person's blood, in a smoke and gas filled shop, she wasn't up to. "Well, maybe…no, I don't think…ahhh…shit…"

"We can't cut him open here." I needlessly stated the obvious. "He's gotta go to the hospital for that."

"No can do." Johnny shook his head.

"Why not?! He's, he's fuckin' dying Johnny!" Losing another relative, an Uncle right after my Dad, it was too much for me to even entertain the thought. Dad had been far and away, and beyond our power. But George was _right there_ in front of me, his own brain crushing itself against his skull, dying in a way there wasn't a damned thing I could do to stop. It was the helplessness I couldn't stand the most.

"Think for a second. The hospital's bound to be packed to the gills with dead, dying, wounded, and pissed, cops. How understanding would they be if the lot of us just showed up?"

"But we can't just _let_ him _die_. Canti, isn't there something you can do?" Were we really just going to write George off just as readily as the state trooper a few minutes ago? I didn't think there was anything Canti could do, but I was grasping at straws.

"I'm afraid not. My function is of a technician, not a surgeon. I might do more harm than good."

"Wait a minute!" Shigekuni had a moment of epiphany, then pointed at me. "Where do you take your dogs for checkups?"

"Doctor Heyward's Clinic, this side of Stumptown…why?"

"Would he be open this early on a Saturday, or would he come in for an emergency?"

"Mister Nandaba, you're a goddamn genius." Josh made the call. The office was open, and Doctor Heyward would be making his way in at any moment. We made up a quick story about Piddles: The Wonder Dog having 'an accident at the shop' since he was the largest of the dogs. While Josh phoned, we loaded George onto the stretcher stashed in the office, then across his truck's backseat with Rita, Shigekuni, and Mike. They took off as fast as Mike dared, headed over the smoothest of backroads. With George on his way, I calmed down some and found several new tasks at hand.

"What? I don't get to go to the vet's office too? I've got problems just's much; my foot could get infected!" The whining was coming from the second state trooper. Aside from watching George be moved, his eyes never strayed from my AK's muzzle. It was becoming apparent to me police were unused to having weapons trained on _them,_ rather than on someone they had stopped, and they found it as every bit terrifying, humiliating, and infuriating, as the rest of us. Something about shoes on other feet.

"No, you have another, more important job." Tommy gave up trying to hail Mr. King on the video chat.

"Then what about him?"

"Oh, we'll take care of him." Tommy had a plan in mind. He bade us to carry over a four foot, by four foot, by half inch thick slab of steel that weighed easily a few hundred pounds, and slide it into the shears; just so the blade would only snip the first few inches. "Move his chair next to the shears."

"OW! Hey, watch it!" The trooper's foot seemed to catch on everything as Johnny and Kamon dragged his chair over. Tommy had me roll over one of the welders while he rummaged in the scrap bins; producing two thick metal semi-circle bands. "What the fuck is this shit?! You can't keep me here. You're imprisoning an Officer of The Law!"

"Put out your left arm, straight out, on the plate, with your palm facing the ceiling. Please." It seemed we had an unconscious agreement to just ignore whatever the man said. Tommy made his request politely and waited.

"Or what?" Broken foot and all, this guy was textbook uncooperative. While I disagreed strongly with his politics, it was impossible to deny his defiance.

"Canti, if you would?" Canti grasped the officer's arm in a wriggle-free grip and forced his arm into position. The man struggled, huffed and puffed, turning beet red trying to push back against overwhelming robotic strength. "Palm up, hand flat." Tommy placed the half-rings over the trooper's arm; one just above the elbow joint so he couldn't even bend his arm, and the other at his wrist. The rings didn't fit as tightly as Tommy liked, so he took them to the bandsaw for a quick adjustment. Back, he put on a welding mask and checked that the wire was feeding.

"W-what're you gonna do with that?!"

"Everyone: EYES." We shielded our eyes from the small sun at the welder's arc. Tommy first tacked, adjusted, and then welded the trooper's arm into place so tightly he couldn't even make a fist.

"Yeowchh! That fuckin' burns! Are your trying to light me on fire?!"

"Okay Stormtrooper, here's the skinny." Tommy flipped the shear's breaker on, locked it into place, and gave the shears full power. It started up with its usual ominous moaning and groaning as the hydraulics pressurized. "We've got some errands to run, and can't be bothered dragging your ass with us. But, we can't spare anyone to sit here and babysit either. So, you're gonna veg' out right here with the shears 'till we get back. We'll even roll over the TV for yah. Now, you are free to leave _whenever you want_. Just push this big green button right here, and you'll be free as a True Nature's Child." Tommy pressed the "Automatic Cycle" button and the shears _ker-lunked_ off a section of the half inch thick plate; just shy of the trooper's fingertips. Tommy, Johnny, and I pushed the trooper and his steel plate further into the shears so now the blade would come down between the metal bands; right onto the middle of the trooper's forearm.

"Wha…I…oh Go…what the fuck?" Wide-eyed, the trooper now focused his attention on the shear's blade.

"If you should decide to leave, then halfway through change your mind…" Tommy hit "Automatic Cycle" and let the blade drop an inch before slapping "Emergency Stop" and resetting the machine. "Just hit the big red button. Is all of this perfectly, crystalline clear?"

"Go fuck yourselves, you buncha terrorist psychos."

"Peace be upon you too, Brother." Tommy patted the trooper on the shoulder and faced us. "Alright, time to get moving. Johnny, start the truck. Rig, grab Shifty and meet me in the office."

. . .

"Good morning Missus Carson, what's the problem with Piddles: The Wonder Dog this morning? I would have expected Jeff to…" Dr. Heyward was almost out of his last bit of sleep as he entered his examination room. What, or rather who, he saw on the table shocked him fully awake. "What in the _HELL_ is the meaning of this?!"

"Doctor Heyward, he has a bad concussion; it's causing bleeding of and on the brain. His brain is beginning to swell. We need you to…" Rita skipped explaining the reason for George's condition, or his attire. He was still wearing his plate carrier with unused AK magazines in its pouches.

"Concussion, blood on brain…" Dr. Heyward moved to the table, beginning his preliminary examination by habit and decades of practice. "May I ask why you're all wearing body armor?"

"We'd rather you didn't." Mike evaded, handing Dr. Heyward printouts of Canti's x-rays. "You can probably guess why we didn't go to the hospital."

"With all the gunfire this morning, I'm assuming it's full to the rafters with police." Heyward put the x-rays on the view panel and swore. "Okay, I'll be honest with you. I make no guarantee I can save him. These are, what, ten minutes old? And they don't look good. That said, I will do my best. But it will be at double the usual rate, and in cash."

"Are you fuckin' nuts?" Mike was aghast. "This's George Carson, you two went to high school together! He's dying and you're worried about money?!"

"I have seven grandkids all living within fifteen minutes drive from here. Do you think the police would hesitate to retaliate against them if they found out I helped you? You forget I was an EMT once upon a time. I know what trauma from a stun grenade at close range looks like. At best, I am looking at losing my license and practice if found out."

"I can't believe you would…" Mike wound up.

"Mike!" Shigekuni broke in. "It's just money. Doctor. How much?"

"Mister Nandaba, don't…"

"G&R Fab's the reason I'm still alive. It's only right I return the favor. How much?"

"One hundred an hour, and two hundred up front."

"Very well." Shigekuni pulled out his wallet and started peeling off bills. "Here's eight hours. What?" Mike and Rita gave him a funny look as he held out a thousand dollars. "I didn't run my bakery as a charity. That, and do you know how much real estate goes for in Japan?"

"Fair enough."

"Thank you very much." Dr. Heyward had seen the bills and that was enough for him. He was looking in George's eyes with a flashlight. "Have Marsha out front put it in my desk. Mary-Jo! Nathan!" He called for his assistants. "We have a swelling brain to relieve. Let's get everything prepped, we need to start five minutes ago!" With a shorthanded staff, Dr. Heyward began operating. Before he made the first cut, he asked if anyone wanted to leave the room. There was no obligation to be present. All elected to stay.

. . .

The State Police station was so covered with headlights and spotlights it lacked any shadow. A ring of regular Patrolmen surrounded a smaller ring of M.C.C. personnel, who in turn, surrounded the building. None of them noticed The Man's arrival. He seemed to have apparated upon the spot straight out of nothing. He announced himself by tapping one of the Sergeants on the shoulder.

"Yeah, whaddyah wa…Sir!" The Sergeant, and everyone in earshot, snapped to rigid attention. "Thank goodness you're here. Maybe you can explain what's going on?"

"To be honest, I was hoping _you_ would, Sergeant Simmons." The Man admitted. He examined the confused scene before him; noting the ten man guard at the front door. "What am I looking at? Please do not spare any details."

"Well Sir, we don't quite know. What we _do_ know is everyone got a recall order to retreat back here; and the other departments the same to their headquarters. Once we arrived, the M.C.C. had already surrounded the place. They aren't letting anyone in or out. We've been hearing a lot of shots inside, but the M.C.C. is claiming they've got it covered."

"Has anyone tried to cross their lines by force?"

"No Sir, not yet anyway. I was the highest ranking when I got here, so I just organized us into this perimeter you're standing in, and have told everyone we are waiting and seeing. There's no sense charging our own guys; especially after this morning."

"You've done well Sergeant. Your patience and organizational skills are commendable."

"Thank you very much, Sir!" Sergeant Simmons beamed with pride. "But now that you're here, do you have any orders?"

"In fact, I do." The Man doffed his long coat, then his suit jacket. He folded both with crisp lines and packed both away into his briefcase. Now the officers in Sergeant Simmon's squad could see the thick leather harness securing a hefty pistol underneath The Man's left arm, a spare magazine pouch under his right arm, and across his back in a draw-down sheath, a large fighting knife.

"Is, is that an Applegate-Fairbairn knife?" Sergeant Simmons recognized the double-edged dagger. "That's illegal to carry, you know…" He reflexively began to inform.

"An Applegate-Fairbairn Combat II model, specifically. And yes, I do know. Are you going to arrest me?" The Man replied with a smirk. Sergeant Simmons stammered an apology that The Man waved away.

"Sergeant, I have orders. Three of them." The Man stared ahead at the front door. The guards there had spotted him in the perimeter line and shifted nervously. "First. Lock this case into one of the MRAP lockers and guard it upon pain of death until my return. Second. Do not fire upon anyone exiting the building, unless they fire on you. I won't be so unreasonable to not allow you self-defense. But I want these M.C.C. men _alive_. Am I being understood, Sergeant?"

"I will put ten guys on the MRAP, and we have plenty of less-lethal rounds. No more dead cops. What's the third order?" The Man strolled forward, drawing his knife with his left hand and pistol with his right. Sergeant Simmons identified the sidearm as a Coonan Classic 0.357 Magnum; the slab-sided stainless steel slide shone in the spotlights. The Man flipped down the gun's slide safety and rotated his knife's blade into a reversed grip.

"Third. Do not get in my way."

. . .

With authority transferred to him, witnessed by four Sergeants, Cole now sought to inform Chiefs Warburg and Strong of his version of events. Chojnacki had possibly ruined the Sheriff's department against him, but two out of three would be enough. He and the four Sergeants, now promoted on the spot to Lieutenant, were collaborating to 'get their story straight.' The idea was to keep it simple, with as few details as possible to pin them down. Emphasis was to be stressed on accepting the new paradigm, then moving onward with bigger, more important problems. And as long as everyone in the room stuck to their parts, self-limited by design, not even The Man himself would be any wiser.

"Are we all agreed then?" Cole asked his four new officers. Each nodded, committing themselves to Cole's leadership. "Remember, key to pulling this off is sticking to our parts, and _moving on_. Say what needs to be said and don't let _anyone_ , try to bog you down. Is that clear?"

"Perfectly, Captain."

"Marvelous." Cole didn't feel his head swelling when addressed by his new rank; but it did all the same. Before he could fully adjust to the self-promotion, reality brought him from Cloud Nine smashing back to Earth. A thunderstorm of gunfire erupted at the front of the building, echoing back to him as dull thunks. He and his cohort exited Chojnacki's office, fearing the surrounding troopers had decided to storm the building. It was, as they found, infinitely worse.

"Kauffman! Kauffman! Jesus Christ, he's coming!" A trooper bathed in blood, some his own, most not, staggered into the hall. He dragged the remains of his right leg, the lower half hanging on by the skin of his kneecap. "We're all dead! We're fucked now, he's here!"

"Who, who's coming?!" Cole's soul ran cold. He already knew.

"We couldn't stop him Sir, too fast…too fast…"

"WHO?! Give me a name!"

" ** _Who else?! It's that God-Dammned Devil himself: The Man in Black!"_**

. . .

* * *

I am such a tease, aren't I? We finally get to see The Man in Black show what he's made of...and...now yah gotta wait. Hey, I can't serve an entire seven course meal on one plate. You have to spread things out a little.

Many groups right now are learning valuable lessons; some a little too late. The GR crew is learning that you do not always get to pick the timing of events, and bad events usually happen at the worst of times; never when you are ready or have planned accordingly. The State Police are learning they bleed just like everyone else, and have some serious soul-searching ahead regarding loyalty. Cole is about to learn that Reality does not care one whit about your ambitions, and it will crash your party whenever it feels like it; and again at the worst possible time. How all these disparate groups deal with their challenges will determine if they live to see the end of this tale.

I am trying to avoid the massive 15,000+ word chapters I used to do, so hopefully this latest trio are in more manageable bites; rather than swallowing them whole like Scooby-Doo and a submarine sandwich. Please let me know if the smaller servings are better, what I can do to improve of course, and what you liked; or didn't. Thank you again for reading, it's good to be back!


	21. Chapter 21

I don't know about you, but if one of my coworkers stumbled into the office, soaked in blood with half his leg blown off, and was screaming the plant's General Manager was on his way with a stack of pink slips in hand and was perma-firing anyone that looked at him funny...I think I'd cash out then and there. Alas, Cole and Company are determined to learn some things the hard way. Also in today's chapter: N.O. and it's application, chemistry and how it effects you, and the Seven Dirty Words you can't say on TV or the radio. Lucky for us, this is neither. Enjoy!

* * *

. . .

Patrolman Hynen had asked if he could put his arms down. Blood flow to them was getting low and his shoulders were beginning to ache. The three others in his corner concurred and beseeched their guard. He jerked the barrel of his UMP-45 at the ceiling.

"You'll put 'em down when I say so, and not a second sooner. Your hands drop more'n your ears and I'll blow your fuckin' head off." While at the moment annoyed, in retrospect Hynen realized having his hands up probably saved his life.

Ten UMP-45's opened up outside with their suppressed chatter, punctuated first with an un-suppressed pistol, then agonizing screams of dying police. The front doors flew off their hinges, showering the lobby with glass. The frames smashed into the front desk and the heavy steel caved in an M.C.C.'s face. Through the gap blew a black blur. The Blur swarmed the first pair of M.C.C. officers, dispatching one with a cracking pistol shot to the temple, and beheading the other with a swing of its arm; both before either officer could get off a shot. A third officer was shoulder checked with a rib and sternum crushing crunch, and was launched across the room and out through a window; getting slashed to ribbons on the broken glass. His partner's right arm detached surgically at the shoulder in a spray of blood, while his weapon fired because shocked nerves had clenched his trigger finger. The burst put seven rounds into a fifth officer, his partner receiving a perfectly placed 0.357 between the eyes. Officer Seven only realized the knife wounds in both his armpits and kidneys as he hit the ground, his eye's last recording was Officer Eight's skull popping as a 0.357 mushroomed inside it. The Blur closed on Officer Nine, the one guarding the prisoners. A single shot was all he got off, harmlessly into the floor. There was a depressurizing whoosh when the Officer's torso was cleaved open from groin to chin, succeeded by a hammered pair of shots; both connecting with Officer Ten perfectly in his center of mass. Then, in its haste, The Blur fired an immediate third shot at the fleeing Officer Eleven. Pulling the trigger on a still cycling pistol, while swinging it from left to right, The Man in Black got the shot off but hit low; and stove-pipe jammed the Coonan. Then, Hynen blinked again.

"Bah! Curses of The Priests…" The Man swore while watching Officer Eleven hop away into the building, his right lower leg dangling with the foot facing the wrong way. "I was too excited, fired too soon. Oh, my apologies! Are any of you injured? With your hands already above your heads, I assumed you to be prisoners."

"Thank you for doing so." Hynen still kept his hands firmly on his head. He couldn't decide what to focus on. The Coonan 0.357 on his left, or the double-edged Applegate-Fairbairn on his right. "I don't believe you need any assistance, but we'll offer ours if you want it."

"I'll note the offer, but I'm in a hurry. I'm afraid you'll only slow me down."

"We figured as much." One of the officers behind Hynen said. "How…how did you, y'know… _DO_ that just now?"

"There is no way for me to teach you, if that's what you desire. I was born with these abilities, gifted to me in The Priest's wisdom, and Red Star's engineering."

"I see…" Hynen felt the creeping sign of eyeroll and fought to keep it internal. The Man's praises of his Priests and mysterious Syrinx sounded to Hynen a load of hinky religious mumbo-jumbo. "What do we do now?"

"Tell me your names." They did. "I will remember them when I have finished with my duties. Turn yourselves over to Sergeant Simmons, just across the front door. He will process you, follow his orders to the letter."

"Yes, Sir." Hynen lead his fellow prisoners outside. They were besieged with questions of what they'd seen inside. None of them could offer anything beyond either magic, or something truly not of their world.

. . .

"I don't know if he'll be able to handle it. I mean, yeah, he's his father's son and all. Emory could handle N.O. but compared to a Liberas, his grasp was rudimentary. For a rube like me, it's taken a lifetime to get used to."

"We are without the luxury of options or time. I have to meet up with The Seven Bosses, Josh hasn't gotten their guys set-up with radio encryption yet, there's still gunfire popping off with Haruko probably in the thick of it, she needs dealt with permanently, and you cannot move your arm. And then a thousand other things still."

"And we still have to eventually get Naota too; if he made it out to Black Moshannon." Tommy and Shifty had started the meeting without me. I'd been told to change into what's referred to as my 'stage outfit' and there I was, with bells on and everything.

"Oh, right! Of course, I'd almost forgotten." Tommy shook his head and winced. His rib was still digging at him. "But you told him we'd be there in twelve hours, so we've still got plenty of time."

"Right. And, I'm not saying 'if' just because there's always that off-chance, y'know, not that I'm saying he didn't make it…I'm going in circles, what's up?"

"Jeff, do you swear by everything Piddles reported to you, and you relayed to us, yesterday evening?" Tommy's voice had a strange cut to it, and it wasn't rib induced.

"That she met with a Man in Black at Grizzly's, so we placed a call to the I.I.B. saying we need them to come and pick her up, and then a few hours later, she conveniently vanishes when the Blue Goon Platoon from Doom Lagoon comes knocking, and the county goes full-retard; and is still nowhere to be found? That everything? Yes I do. I trust Piddles: The Wonder Dog with my life. He has never let me down, lied, or given me any reason to doubt him yet." I could sense I was being led up to something. There were bases being covered, or a checklist being marked off. A suspicion I already had, but I had dismissed it as outlandish. Last time I'll do that.

"Then, as your acting commanding officer, I am ordering you, Staff Sergeant Jeff Carson, to apprehend Space Patrol Officer Haruko Haruhara, and bring her here so she can be transferred to the I.I.B. and sent to stand trial; alive if possible. If that is not possible, you are authorized any means available of deadly force. Either way, she is to cease being a threat to this station, its personnel, and its area of operations; two hours ago. Do you understand this order as I have given it to you?"

"…Y-Yes." My throat had closed on me. "Yes, Captain Carson. I do."

"Good. Master Sergeant Shaufner." Now it was Shifty's turn for formal talk. I could tell he was having an inner eye roll at the whole thing. "As you cannot fulfill your duty as Hunter to assist Jeff, I request one of your Vials for his use."

"Captain Carson, I must remind you and Staff Sergeant Carson of the risks involved." Rank and assignments are a funny couple. While Tommy is an O-3 grade and Shifty an E-8 grade, Shifty had complete control over his case of Vials. Tommy, or an Overwatch General, an I.I.B. Admiral, even a G.S.P.B. Commandant, all could order him 'till they were blue in the face to open his case and hand out the contents, and Shifty could (and certainly would) tell all of them to get bent. "While Jeff has a genetic predisposition to better handling N.O.'s effects, he is not his father. Major Emory Carson was once a G.S.P.B. officer in his prime yes, but his grasp on N.O.'s power was tenuous at best. Jeff has expressed no such characteristics except for the basic benchmark of no immediate allergic reaction. This does not make for any guarantee with a full application. At best, he will have one hell of a crash once it works through his system. This is assuming his body does not reject the Surge outright and shut down."

"She is my mess. I didn't follow the orders to keep my distance and observe and report only. I walked right up to her and said hello. So now, I've got to clean my mess up. Shifty, you're the expert on Men in Black and Liberas. Is this the _only_ way I will stand any kind of chance against her?"

"…Yes. Without it, she will have you for breakfast." Shifty's eyes betrayed his mind. He was furious with himself for getting shot and not being able to help me. "Alright. Come here, hold the case up for me will yah? Ahem…Echelon. Nine. Eight. Eleven. Seventeen. One. Seven. Eighteen. Twenty-four. One. Zero. Nineteen. Eighteen. Five." Shifty unlocked his case, pulling free a Vial, syringe, and fresh needle.

"Okay, okay, so….so, uh, left, left arm? Or right?" We had helped Shifty set everything up, drawing a syringe full from the Vial. Now he eyed my arms.

"Your non-trigger hand, so your left." I'd already rolled up my sleeves, and with years of practice, Shifty found a vein easily. "Here goes…"

A warm syrup flowed into my arm. The first sensation, besides the heat, was immense weight pulling at my elbow. It seemed when exposed outside a Vial's vacuum, N.O. is denser still. It spread down to my fingers and up my shoulder, sloshing down through my heart and then radiating outward. Soreness and sharp pains from earlier wounds I'd taken melted away. A giddy euphoria lit up my face, the weight of my equipment left me, and a restless urgency started me wanting to fidget. I could feel my pupils dilate, seeing everything perfectly crystalline clear without glasses or contacts for the first time in my life. My heart's beat grew robust, lungs doubled in capacity, and senses adjusted to twice, thrice their baseline. A drunken invulnerability was sitting on my shoulder, telling me I was now capable of anything. Sprint a mile in a minute. Bench press a truck. Fly by merely wishing it. Blue, shining lines winked in the peripheral of my vision. When I could catch glances of them, they seemed to be part of a web or grid, some parts thicker and brighter than others. I was so awestruck by just the injection, I didn't think to ask about any drawbacks.

"Oh shit, his eyes turned blue!" Tommy was peering at me for any sudden signs of side-effects or rejection. "Is that normal? They supposed to look like that? I've never seen you use the stuff, so I don't know."

"Mmm-hmm. Perfectly normal. I'd be surprised if they didn't turn color. And he hasn't rejected the N.O.'s Surge, he's not in a drooling, shitting seizure on the floor. Now, side-effects on the other hand. 'Kay Jeff. We're gonna do a quick exam, then you'll be on your way. Ready?"

"Yep!" I sounded like some over-sugared kid on Halloween night.

"Stand up straight, head level, eyes forward." He put the back of his hand to my forehead, then two fingers tight against my jugular. "Temperature feels normal, pulse is normal; a little fast but we'll discount that. Touch your chin to your chest. Pain? No, good. Raise your left leg, straight out, to your waist. Pain? No, good. Right leg same. Same? Same. Read the bottom line, left eye only." Shifty produced an index card from his case. It was stamped with random letters. "Perfect. Other eye. Perfect. Okay, cover your right eye. Say 'now' when you see Tommy's hands." He had Tommy stand a foot away, arms outstretched and brought them in. Shifty observed over Tommy's shoulder. "Good. Again." And repeated the maneuver for both eyes and in 45-degree angles to my vision. "Alright, now follow my finger…good, good. Bite down hard. Open your mouth. Close it. Raise your eyebrows. Good. Smile with teeth. Frown. Puff up your cheeks…all good. Close your eyes. Say either 'sharp' or 'dull' if you feel something. A needle-point and pencil eraser touched my temples, edges of my eyes, sides of my nose, and chin. "Perfect. Repeat this string of numbers to me in _reverse_ order. Ten. Two. Four. Seven. Forty-Nine."

"Forty-Nine. Seven. Four. Two. Ten."

"Stick out your tongue. Move it left, center, right. Put it back. What were those numbers again?"

"Forty-Nine. Seven. Four. Two. Ten."

"All your lights are green. None of your nerves broke, and your brain didn't fry." Shifty declared me fit for duty. "Since you have not built up a tolerance like me, it's gonna move through you pretty quick. You have…about an hour; give or take five minutes. Don't over-extend yourself, don't try anything you wouldn't normally do, and no, you cannot fly; even though it feels like it."

"Roger that. Anything else I should know?" The clock was running now, and I had only one idea where to start. I looked down to see my carabiner was beginning to pull against my belt; pointed northeast and away from King Coal. It was bearing instead, on Voyze's Quarry. That was one problem that solved itself.

"It's pointless to order you to do this, but do really try to not get killed." Tommy said. "You're much more fun this way."

"I'll run it by the committee, see what we can do for you."

"Smartass. I've got nothing to add, or anything inspirational. This morning's been all kinds of too screwed up to think of anything. Just be sure the smack that smirk of hers right off her face. Also, I know you and Emory, your Dad, didn't get along. But please remember everything your Dad taught you about Backbreaker. You're going up against a Liberas carrying a double-neck, and that's no joke. Okay, got that, got everything you need? Then time's wasting! Dismissed!"

The Ought-Too was waiting for me outside. It started like it had N.O. in its tank instead of gasoline, sensing my urgency. After I made sure my guitar was secure across my back, I dropped into gear and was off.

. . .

Atomsk _had_ been at King Coal; that much was obvious. The jingle-jangle on her wrist was enough for Haruko. There was no way the Pirate King was still hanging around though. The facility was swarming with workers, even at the early weekend hour. And, Haruko recognized a distinct model of rifle some were carrying.

'That mystery's solved.' She thought, seeing fully-assembled products of her handiwork. 'G&R's definitely a front for some organization. Which one though?' King Coal was a dry well, and full of nervous, armed miners. So she mounted up to pursue another lead. 'They're nowhere well-equipped or mobile enough for G.S.P.B.; and at least when I was in, we never did the work and train the natives dance. They're much too informal and non-regulation to be I.I.B. Although, seeing Amarao assigned out here in the sticks, far from his creature comforts, would be hilarious. No…they have to be…gotta be…Overwatch. Oh, that's just too much! Little baby Overwatch, trying to play with the big kids!'

King Coal was far behind now. Ahead loomed the plateau Voyze's Quarry had taken upon the duty of boring into. It too had transformed into an armed camp, with surly guards prowling the gates. She took roads and paths much, much less traveled to slowly work her way around to the back of the property. Her chain link clinked increasingly frequent as she crept along.

'But now, of course _NOW,_ it makes perfect sense! Surely, I should've seen it sooner. Well, in a way, I did, didn't I? I had Rig nailed from day one. But that explains why Naota and his family are here, live up the road, why Naota actually knows some non-boring stuff now, he's actually…anyway. And that guitar of Rig's, I knew there was something off about it. Still can't say what that exactly is. But it's strange…very, very strange…At least I don't have to worry about any of them coming after me. It's not like Overwatch, and certainly not G &R, has anyone capable to catching yours truly!'

She'd reached the property fence again. Here it was reduced to a few strands of rusting barbed wire strung between the trees. Finding a gap worn by rust and age, she pushed on up the hill. A flash in the corner of her eye caught her breath in her throat. She leaped off her Vespa and had her guitar halfway off her back, ready to fight. The remains of a POSTED: NO TRESPASSING sign rattled on its nail. The old metal shimmered where paint had flaked off, looking like a pair of sunglasses twinkling in the coming dawn.

"Paranoid, much?" She asked as she put her guitar back in place. "Jumping at signs, get it together. You're just imagining things…you've got nothing to worry about." Finally atop the hill, the ground plunged straight down. A yawning column bored in the rock beckoned. From its edge, it looked to be a bottomless pit; or at least 1,000 feet down. It was from there the N.O. signal was coming. So back down, down, down she went, hoping for an end to her pursuit at the bottom.

. . .

A blur was smashing, slashing, and shooting its way towards him. This Blur waltzed its way between the tracers of a picked up M240, the orange flashes lighting up the narrow hallway. The gunner's arms were cut off at the elbows and a 0.357 round blew his helmet off. Two UMP-45's in the same hall couldn't track this Blur. It pin-balled from wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling, and launched itself downward. A gurgling cry burst from the hallway as The Man in Black lead with his left arm, double-edged blade first, and stabbed through a trooper's chest clean up to his elbow. Without pausing to reflect on finding his arm stuck in a woman's chest, The Man simply continued forward while holding the body upright. His new shield took a burst of 0.45 rounds while he used its shoulder as a rest for his pistol. All the while Cole stared in disbelieving horror. Only when one of his Lieutenant's took a bullet to the nose, and the brain evacuating via the Lieutenant's right ear spattered itself on Cole's face, did he come to his senses.

"Ah…Cole!" The Man saw him through the smoke, haze, and floating red mist. A flick and straightening of his arm threw off the impaled trooper, her body casually tossed against the wall. " _There_ you are. A bit of advice. If you are going to go around calling yourself 'Captain', and act as if you command this station, your hospitality needs a complete rethinking. I have been here for…one minute and thirty-six seconds…" The Man consulted his pocketwatch, evidently timing himself. "And not _once_ have I been offered a cup of that delicious stuff you Humans call coffee. Your first day on the job has gotten off to a bad start. Just what kind of organization are you commanding? I expected _much_ more from you."

"You got here just in time, Sir!" One of Cole's surviving Lieutenants was brave (or foolish) enough to give their rehearsed story a go. "We found Captain Chojnacki in his office, dead as a hamm-." _BAMN!_ The Man shot him in the mouth. Broken teeth spilled out of the bloody hole, widened by the jaw becoming dislocated. The man crumpled, choking on his own tongue and incisors.

"Is anyone else going to waste my time with flimsy lies, or will I receive the truth?" The Man looked down at his Coonan. The slide was locked open, and he had no more spare magazines. Stowing it in his holster, he added: "And I am out of ammunition. The next liar will have their tongue cut. Well?"

"T-this is ridiculous!" Cole forced himself to protest. "I am the new, rightful Captain of the State Patrol, and will be addressed as su-." The Man interrupted by heel-kicking Cole deep in the solar plexus, and using his foot to shove Cole ten feet backwards into the wall.

"You are nothing but a Traitor. That shall forever be your rank and name. Addressing you by any other word is too kind. You." The knife's blade came inches from the third Lieutenant's nose. "I want to hear the truth." This man, terrified and desperate, spilled his guts.

"The, the officers set us up! We got the shit shot outta us this morning; there's no way that could've happened unless someone told them we were coming! But Cole put it all together, and lead us here to take back control, and stop Chojnacki and the Chiefs from getting more guys killed! And now we're the new leadership. Chojnacki, Strong, Sarabyn, Warburg, they're the real traitors!"

"Have you even the slightest idea how indescribably vacuous that fairy-tale sounds? Which of your number devoted his entire two brain cells to concoct such a farce? Please, _please_ tell me it wasn't him, Traitor?" The Man gestured at Cole, who was still wheezing and gasping on the floor. "Go ahead. I'll allow you to lie just this once. Say it was the genius of any of the dead behind me. They're already dead, so what does it matter? No? May The Priests grant me their patience…" The Man reached up under his sunglasses to rub his eyes. Morning had arrived and he was missing his now daily cup of coffee. He was already in a foul mood and this did not help.

"Cole, run!" Seeing this small distraction as their only chance, the last two Lieutenants charged. Rooted in place, The Man backhanded one, fracturing and dislocating his jaw, breaking three teeth, crushing his left eye socket and cheekbone, rupturing the left eardrum, and cracking his skull's temporal region. That Lieutenant thudded to the floor and The Man left him there to expire in agony. The other Lieutenant meanwhile howled in pain, holding up a right hand filled with shattered knuckles. His blow to The Man's abdomen may's well have been against a brick wall. A leather-gloved hand clenched hard around the Lieutenant's neck, cutting off first the scream and then fading pleading. The Man squeezed and squeezed until he felt veins popping and bones crackling, and then at last, a pulpy squish. Cole regained his feet and disappeared down a different hallway, still doubled over. The Man dropped the throttled Lieutenant, stepped over the others, and pursued Cole at a leisurely walk.

Cole's vision throbbed, black at the edges. His gut was on fire and breathing was a series of knife stabs to his navel. Now he was completely disoriented, stumbling along and navigating by fear and touch. A door yielded to his weight and he collapsed into the room. The cool tiles on his cheek meant this was the forensic laboratory. He dragged himself forward, reaching out to a table to haul himself up.

"No, you stay down there where you belong." A voice above commanded. Shooting pain radiated through his right hand. The Man had thrown down his knife, pinning Cole's hand to the floor. Try as he might, he couldn't budge the blade. Meanwhile, The Man was browsing the shelves and reading the labels on the many jars and buckets.

"Formaldehyde, no. Iodine, certainly not. Silver nitrate, luminol…no, and no. Hydrogen peroxide, ninhydrin, come now…bleach? Perhaps…ahhh…this'll be _perfect._ " The Man pulled a five gallon bucket off a lower shelf and walked back to Cole. He bent to pull the radio off Cole's belt and called upon Sergeant Simmons.

"Sergeant Simmons, is the rest of the building clear? It's become rather quiet in here."

"Yessir. We had to gas out the cell block, pumped it full of CS. We took two dead, four wounded; nothing serious. We have eleven prisoners, and four dead M.C.C. that wouldn't come quietly."

"Excellent. I have Cole, and his inner cadre have been dealt with. Marshall everyone on the parade field. Use the basketball court's fence as a stockade for the prisoners. I need to make an announcement, so have everyone in formation and at attention!" His orders given, The Man retrieved his knife. Then he took the bucket in one hand, Cole's shirt collar in the other, and began dragging Cole outside.

. . .

Only at the bottom of the borehole did Haruko realize how dead-bone dry this new well was. A single feather the length of her leg was the source of her chain link's jangling. That was it. A feather. A red, luminescent, leg-long feather. But it was a useless, fucking stupid, useless, gods-damned, piece of shit, piss, fuck, cunt, cock-sucker, mother-fucker, tits, **_FEATHER!_**

"Huuhhhggg…huhhggg…huuhhhggg…okay…ooo-kay. It's just a minor setback. The place is layered with shale, it's probably messing with the signal…yeah, that's it. This wasn't your fault, you didn't know any better…this was the strongest signal…it's okay, it's…Oh…Kay…" Haruko talked herself down from a stratospherical blood pressure. She was on the right path. Atomsk _had_ been there, the feather of his was proof. Where he would go, was the question. He couldn't have left the planet, such a feat would require a large burst of N.O. and she hadn't felt one. She didn't believe he knew she too was on Earth, so most likely he was merely finding a new place to hide. Somewhere even father out of the way, somewhere less attention grabbing and less accessible.

"West." Remembering the vast, empty plains of America's Middle from her flyover months ago, it seemed obvious. "He's gone west to those plains, and then probably to the mountains past them. Isn't that just too perfect? Welp. No time to hang around this popscicle stand. I. Am. Outta. Here." With improved spirits she swung her leg over her Vespa and started up. The slight off sound of the engine's usual rhythm reminded her: she was still minus a Gundam Module.

'There'll be one along the way. How could there not be?' She convinced herself, then looked up at the borehole's skyline. A silhouette stood backlight against the morning sun. Even from this distance, she could see the dirtbike's orange paint, and just barely made out the headstock of a six string over the rider's shoulder.

"You can't be serious."

. . .

Where he had once stood proudly before the M.C.C., Cole now knelt before the surviving State Patrol. Blood flowed freely from his right hand, both were shackled behind his back, with a chain running to another set of shackles on his feet. No effort was made to bandage his hand, or stem the bleeding. His abdomen ached and he'd just had a coughing fit, hacking up a disturbingly large wad of bloody gunk. Back and to his left, out of sight but fully in mind, stood The Man. He and The Man were at center court, facing the home basket. The rest of the force was under and around the home basket, and on the left and right sidelines. Behind Cole, handcuffed and tied upright to the fence, were the surviving eleven mutineers. Just outside the fence, on the parade ground, the ground was carpeted with full body bags.

"It would bring me no greater pleasure than to congratulate each and every one of you, for a hard-fought, hard- _won_ battle this morning. I say 'it would', because I cannot in good conscience bring myself to form the words. Disappointment does not describe your department's sorry state. An entire fifty-six man platoon vanishes without a trace, hardly one of _twenty_ of your targets were actually engaged, let alone _apprehended_ …and then…and then, I **_personally_** have to put down an improvised, on-the-spot, **_MUTINY._** " The Man was exercising his uncanny ability to hold everyone's ear with a conversational volume; while flawlessly concealing a seething rage.

"This morning was to be celebratory. It was to be your christening, I believe is the word, under fire. Proof of worthiness to enter the ranks of, as is called in The Federation: _Inser Bertoningwis_. Military Police. Now I see, that wasn't good enough! Some of you…" A grip that pressed the plates of Cole's skull against each other, took his head and rotated it up to face the crowd. His face was on display for the entire department. Everyone had a good, long, uninterrupted look. The Man was making sure everyone knew exactly who this was. "Forgot your place, and are to serve in a new capacity to your fellows: As Reminders."

"If…if you're expecting me to plead forgiveness or leniency, you'll get no such satisfaction." Cole straightened his back as far as his diaphragm allowed. "And there'll be no apologies forthcoming either. My only regret is getting caught."

"That is just as well. I have no patience, nor use, for excuses. All I want to know, and want everyone else to know, is Why. Tell your brothers in arms why you turned on them, shot them, tortured them, why you bit the kindest hand that's ever been extended in your entire life?"

"Because I deserve _better_ , no, I _demand_ better. I'd like to see _you,_ any of you, growing up as the oldest in my house! With six younger brothers, all looking to you as their surrogate father; and also looking at any chance to take over the family as their own. _I_ was the smartest of the seven of us. _I_ was the cleverest. _I_ was the one who held everyone together. Why shouldn't I then get what's owed to me? The newest clothes that everyone else got to grow into. The second helping at dinner while everyone else went to bed still slightly hungry. The first crack at any job offering or work that came our way. After all, like I said, I was the best of the bunch. And just the same as it was for Mister Solomon. And just the same as it is now. Everyone else…" He jerked his head at the commissioned officer corps that had survived; a wretchedly small number.

"Only saw my strengths as a threat. Don't you have any idea how real police selection works? Selflessness, patience, service to others, all applications with those words go straight in the trash. It's about _control_ , and it's about _power_. That's all. It's the best high there is, holding someone's life in your hand. My brothers were just a practice set, but here I could really shine! But even with a record arrest tally, the tons of drugs seized, the assets impounded, hundreds of thousands of dollars in cash confiscated, still confined me to a mere Patrolman! Can you imagine how it burns me still, the injustice of it all? And then! Then the disaster of this morning. Set-up to fail by scheming political hacks. I had no other choice but to move on, and move up. What else was I supposed to do? Maintain my station in some fatalist sense of duty; go down with the ship when it was a faulty design to begin with? No thank you! And you know what?" Cole was truly on a roll, loving the sound of his own voice; even now. No one made any motion to stop him, and along he went.

"Even the precious few minutes, that moment before you threw me into the sun, was the first time I felt content. I'd gotten _exactly_ what I wanted; and all on my own. The son of the county drunk: Captain of The Pennsylvania State Patrol; even if for only five minutes. So go ahead. Put me against the fence with the others and shoot me already."

"Oh…Cole. You know I can't do that. You're much better serving right where you are." The Man picked up the bucket he'd carried out from the forensic laboratory. "Listen! Listen all, and listen well! The Red Star of The Solar Federation has extended you the open hand of comradeship. Grasping it secures your place in the Brotherhood of Man! A fraternity across the stars, that is one for all, and all for one; each member working together as Common Sons. All are welcome, accepted, our stock in trade the highest quality…all the Gifts of Life held within our walls. But nothing is without cost, even as small as one that I asked once before, and now ask again." The Man dipped his voice back to conversational. He had no need to be forceful with his audience captured.

"And that is to be Meek. For only then will you inherit this Earth. Be grateful to have been offered a place at our table as an equal; rather than abandoned to starve in the snow. Be contented in your role as a brick of millions, to form an everlasting foundation of this new civilization. Be thankful for the opportunity to showcase what a motivated soldier of Syrinx can accomplish. For Syrinx, and his envoys The Priests, and I theirs, will not, _cannot_ forgive what has been allowed to fester here: unchecked Avarice. We have asked of you little except that you listen, and _this_ is how we are repaid?! Stinging acid thrown in our face would have been kinder. So you power-hungry, you sniveling, clawing, sneaking thieves, ungrateful usurpers, allow me, the Fist of The Priests, the Conduit of Syrinx's Wrath, to repay you in kind! Traitor! A stain upon this house you have become, and as a stain, you will be washed away. **_To Traitors, only the cruelest of ends!_** "

Upended, the bucket's contents doused Cole head to toe, and soaked into his uniform. In shock and anticipation, he fell to his side and curled into a ball. Nothing happened. No pain, burning, nothing. Blinking out the drops in his eyelashes, he caught a glimpse of the bucket's label. The blue, red, yellow, and white diamond showed a '4' in the blue quadrant, and blank elsewhere. Two letters next to the diamond read 'HF'. This meant nothing, and everything, to him.

"What was that? After all that wailing and preaching you just did… _THAT_ was it?!" Cole felt a gallows laugh coming on. "You splashed me, got me wet did you? Am I clean now? Can we stop this now and act serious?"

"You have…" The Man, unamused and unfazed, consulted his pocketwatch. "Thirty seconds. Enjoy it, while it lasts."

"Thirty seconds? Thirty seconds until what? You splash me again?"

"Twenty."

"Really, I'm more embarrassed than scared now. If you expect me to die laughing, you might be on to something."

"Ten."

"Are you really just going to stand there?"

"I take no pleasure in this." The Man put his pocketwatch away, knelt down and spoke only so Cole could hear. "I had such great faith in you, and you had such potential. We were going to make you a Commander in The Red Star Interior Police when everything is finished. You would have done very well for yourself, I think you would have been right at home in our City of Megadon. It's a shame you only coveted what others had and wanting them in the here and now, when you were quite capable of earning them yourself. If only you had been a little more patient. Too late now though. Farewell, Patrolman Cole Richard Kauffman."

The pain began as a dull, body-wide ache. The fluid had been a concentrated solution of Hydrofluoric Acid. It immediately began reacting with calcium and magnesium ions in Cole's blood, producing the insoluble calcium fluoride. This created an imbalance that depleted Cole's bodily reserves of calcium and magnesium, disrupting his cellular function. His cells were dying slowly at first; and then all at once. Doused in the stuff, nowhere on him was immune. Searing, prickling, stabbing agony roiled every square inch of his flesh, a thousand bee stings and needle stabs at once; inside and out. Rolling, thrashing, screaming, all useless. Pins jabbed his eyes, fire flashed in his lungs, sandpaper ran over his tongue and throat, and then he looked down.

His uniform had pulled up, exposing his stomach and hip. The skin was swelling and distorting, turning into a chalky, blistered series of gross and overlapping folds; all pressing on each other and causing ever more pain at contact. Breathing was becoming a chore. More bloody sputum hacked itself up as his nose began running and his sinuses clogged shut; denying him the ability to breathe nasally. Every cry for help came out as a wet, sputtering cough. Each was followed by more dead tissue and blood spat onto the court.

Everyone watched in silence. The Man's eyes couldn't be seen, but each trooper felt The Man's gaze was fixed only on them. He was daring them to look away, to give him the slightest eyebrow twitch of challenge or disapproval. They knew if they did, there were plenty of open space left on the fence. All had been lain perfectly clear. The Man was offering the Carrot of a Paradise, or the Stick of swift dismissal; and he was willing and capable of following through on this promise for _any_ of them. Even his favored were not exempted. Anyone with second thoughts knew their window to get out unscathed, had closed. The only escape now was death.

Ten agonizing minutes later, Cole was still alive. Rather, what was left of him. The uniform was the only recognizable feature left. Wrapped inside it lay a disfigured, mottled, broken and bleeding abomination; human in the grossest terms of anatomy only. This thing's skin was ballooning in patches, cracking and splitting, and dissolving into a slurried gunk. And at his core, the chemical was closing in on Cole's heart. A stake of pain hammered into his chest with each increasingly desperate beat of his heart. He'd have ripped off his skin and clawed through his sternum to make the crushing weight ease, the torment end that much faster. Handcuffed and shackled, all he could do was wriggle. Slowly the struggles grew smaller, until his extremities finally failed. The lights had already gone out, his optic nerves and blood vessels filling with toxin. But someone was still stubbornly home, remaining with the suffering. Finally, Cole Kauffman's heart violently seized as his lungs topped off with fluid. It fluttered and quaked, then beat no more. It had taken him thirty one minutes to die.

. . .

* * *

And so passes from our story Cole Kauffman. Sometimes grabbing the brass ring seems too easy, and that's because it's sitting at the bottom of a raccoon fist trap. Cole stuck his hand in up to the elbow, and the hunter came along to collect. Figuring out how to work Cole into boiling oil without some incident similar to the Joker from Batman falling into a vat of acid. I think this works; and Hydrofluoric Acid is _nasty._ According to several sights I used for research, only 25 square inches, 160 square centimeters, of skin coverage is a fatal dose! That's just getting it ON you. Not in your eyes, swallowing it, snorting, injecting, just spilling it on your skin. Criminently! Do not look up the burns at work, or if you're planning to eat, or just ate, or have a weak stomach.

Other than that, I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and at least can hum along with Cole's reasoning for what he did and how he acted. It has been a good mental exercise figuring out the WHY of characters.

We also learn a little more on how N.O. works, a little more of the Carson family; a little bit of this 'n' that here and there really ties everything together. I feel like I have neglected Naota in this recent release of chapters. I mean, he kinda is THE main character. But now there's so much else going on, so for the moment we'll let him sleep. He's had a rough morning.

Let's see...anything else? Nope, that about does it for this one. Thank you as always so very much for reading, I apologize profusely again for the long hiatus. Please let me know how I'm doing, and I'll see you over in Chapter 22!


	22. Chapter 22

Let's see, where did we leave off? Cole's dead, Haruko's lead at Voyze's is a dead-end, and there are eleven traitors remaining from Cole's coup that stand a real chance of becoming dead. Is anyone else beginning to notice a theme here? Now we get something I wondered about for a few weeks on how to do, if I were to write it in at all: an N.O. fueled battle between two guitar wielders. I mean, how freakin' cool does that sound? Amiright? So, I hope your speakers are in working order, and your neighbors have excellent taste in Michigan-grown Music.

* * *

. . .

A dirtbike's growl filled the borehole as it started down the corkscrew earthen ramp. Haruko waited at the bottom, turning her head 'round her shoulders to watch; until that made her dizzy. At last, Rig materialized out of shadow. Now on the last turn before dropping to her level, he stopped and dismounted. At first, his garb didn't add up. He was in a usual button-up mechanic shirt with the sleeves rolled, the usual jeans, the usual motocross boots, usual G&R hat, usual pocket notepad and pen in his shirt's pocket. But a few things stood out as incorrect in her mind. The metal carabiner on his belt loop she'd only seen once before, the day of her arrival. Two canvas pouches were secured to the brackets on his belt, one for each hip. Behind the pouch on his right, clipped onto his belt, was a portable Marshall MS-2 Mini amplifier, and its cable was plugged into his guitar. The guitar he held at a modified low ready. None of it made sense, until she beheld the glowing bright blue of his eyes, two pale lanterns shining at her in the borehole's shade. Then, it clicked.

"Well, well, well. Look who it is. Ambassador of the Special-Ed Short-Bus Club that is Overwatch. To what occasion do I owe this inconvenience?"

"Space Patrol Officer, First Class, Haruko Haruhara. We have never properly introduced ourselves. I am Staff Sergeant Jeffrey Carson, of Overwatch's Section Two Hundred and Sixty-Two. You are scheduled for a flight with the Interstellar Immigration Bureau to the seat of the Galactic Republic Court, to stand trial for High Crimes; Treason chief among them. If you lay down your Guitar now, that will…"

"Look, if you're gonna talk me to death, at least quit being formal about it. Shit's _reallllly_ annoying."

"M'oh-kay. Here's what's up, Sugar-Tits." Both felt relieved when they agreed to speak freely. "I'm gonna take you into custody so the I.I.B. can swing by and pick your sorry ass up, then drag you kicking and screaming to court; where you'll get every book thrown at you, and spend the rest of your days mining ore in an asteroid. If you ain't kosher with this, or put up any kind of a fuss, you're gonna get your pretty pink head blown off."

"Rrrriiiigghhhhtttt…yeah, sorry, no. Uh, not gonna happen. Listen Bub', I'm in all kinds of a hurry, and really, _really,_ **_really_** , don't wanna deal with…whatever you got goin' on here." She drew circles around her own eyes, using the distraction to start getting a good grip on her guitar and slipping its strap off her shoulder. "Besides, you've got nothing personal with me, this's just business…"

"You shut that lyin' whore mouth of yours right the fuck now."

"WHOA! Whoa there, waaaaay _TOO_ informal there…"

"Naota's house is full of holes and four dead cops, half of my house is kindling, the shop's been shot to shit, fifty plus _more_ cops are dead on my lawn, and my Uncle is dying in the fuckin' vet's office. Now, we and all those dead cops may just be dirty, no-good, monkey Humans to you, but it's all still very much YOUR fault, and you WILL suffer for it. So quit stallin' and either surrender, or make my day and fuckin' fight me. I got myself right 'n' plenty pissed on the ride over, and I'm not letting a good blood rage go to waste."

'He's bluffing.' If he really was Overwatch as he claimed, he knew exactly what she was capable of. There was no way he actually wanted a fight, he'd have to know she would mop the floor with him. 'It's an act, a damn decent one, but that's all it is.'

"Look, I'm sure that's just a coincidence. I had nothing to…"

"At three thirty yesterday, you met at Grizzly's Bar and BBQ, in Osceola Mills. Your contact was an agent of Medical Mechanica: A Man in Black. You sat in the far back corner booth. He ordered a bourbon, on the rocks. You had a Blue Moon and asked for an extra orange slice; because you like the pulp. After that you disappear and your actions at this time cannot be accounted for. Then, in the evening, you reappear at Naota's house; only to disappear again minutes later. After this, a fifty plus platoon of police roll up, and wow! You've vanished like a far in the wind! Now, what kind of a coincidence am I supposed to fashion out of that fuck-wad fantasy?"

"I dunno? Try writing it down, rolling up the paper, and then shoving it up your ass for all I care."

"Woman, don't you patronize me."

"Damn you are a pain. Almost bad enough to warrant a beating. But lucky for you…" She shifted her shoulder to show her guitar's empty amplifier jack. "My guitar's not plugged in."

"Ohhh…that's just too God damned bad." Rig turned his portable amp on and gave his sixth string a pluck with his thumb. A deep **_Thhuhhrrruummmm…_** filled the borehole. "Because MINE IS. Tell yah what. You've got 'till the end of these opening bars, and then it's Open Season on you."

"Ohhh…I'm so, SO, scar-…" **_BRR-RROOWWW!_** Rig stared playing while a strange lunatic leer began creeping over his face, eyes opening wide as he bared his teeth in a Mad-Man's laughter.

'Wait, wait, wait! I recognize that tune!' She took a step back as he marched forward, bringing his guitar's base closer to the crook of his shoulder. 'Is he…he is! He's trying to pull a Crazy Uncle Ted! We'll see about that!'

"Have it your way!" She went for her guitar just as the opening bars ended and Rig brought his guitar up in a rifle-shooting stance. Battle with an N.O. attuned or sensitive guitar is a sight to behold, more so to _hear_ when those guitars are plugged into amplifiers. Rig's 1956 Gibson LP Standard knew its player as well as he knew it, and had already discerned his choice of tune. It continued to blast sound from the small box on Rig's belt. The entire arrangement the guitar knew on instinct, the amplification boosting its power as Rig took aim with it at Haruko's head, and fired.

 _*WHHAAOOOAA! Welcome to my town!_

 _High energy's all 'round tonight!_

 _WHHHAAOOAA! You'd best beware!_

 _There's vi'h'lence in the air tonight! Huh!_

 _Well, Detroit City, she's the place to be!_

 _This Mad-Dog town's gonna set you free!_

In a flash, Haruko's sixth sense kicked on, activating a product of an evolution a million years in the making. The swirling, arcing, twisting and weaving flows of N.O. strands appeared before her, connecting her to all things in an endless, fluid web. Energy surged in, nature abhorring a vacuum dumped N.O. into her; what it saw as an empty vessel waiting to be topped off. Now with her senses heightened, strength at full might, and reflexes at the razor's edge, it was high-time to address the bullet barreling towards her nose at over 1,600 feet per second. Even for her, this was going to be close. By backpedaling, she barely had enough room to swing. The edge of the guitar's body connected perfectly, and batted the bullet deep into right field. Already Rig was reloading.

Now she understood why Backbreaker was so densely heavy. Rig rotated the whammy bardown ninety degrees, unlocking the breach and body face. The face lifted away from the guitar's body, pivoting on the hinge at the back and bottom of the fretboard. A spent shell auto-ejected, the brass canister clanging on the stones as smoke roiled from it and Backbreaker's hidden cannon. Seeing the inner working, Haruko saw the instrument had been built around the cannon and barrel of a 20mm single-shot rifle, hidden inside the body, and the barrel in place of a truss rod. Rig drew a fresh shell from one of the canvas pouches on his belt. He dropped, then slammed it home, then snapped the body's face back down. Lastly, he pulled the whammy back up ninety degrees to its default position, then ninety degrees further, up and back now, until a solid _CLUNK_ indicated the gun cocked, locked, and ready to fire.

'Close, I have to get close to him!' She started forward, keeping herself in line with one thread of N.O. The trouble of being able to see, travel along, and draw energy from, N.O. threads is they are never in a straight line; which makes for what appears to be a haphazard, erratic, and random fighting style. However, as a bonus, it does make one much harder to hit with a projectile based weapon. 'If I can get, and stay, within arm's reach, I'll be under the muzzle where he can't hit me; and I can just beat him to pulp!'

 _OHHhhh, when do we mount the stage?!_

 _Gonna cause a Mad-Dog Rage! M'whaaa-haa-haa-haa!_

 _Whhoooaaaa, when you see my name…_

 _Gonna set this town a'flame! That's right!_

 _Well, Detroit City is just the place to be!_

 _Murder Town's gonna set you free tonight!_

 _OH! No, noooaAAHHHH! NO! Oww! Oh no!_

Either Rig was a hair faster than she gave him credit, or she wasn't as fast as she thought. Either way, he still got off a second shot. Instead of the muzzle being behind and over her shoulder, it was in an uncomfortable proximity to her right ear. Half her vision went searing white, and her ear became useless as escaping gases exploded six inches away. But that would be dealt with later. She had Rig where she wanted him. It was impossible for her to miss. She swung and connected the flat back of her guitar's body centrally on Rig's beltline. Unplugged, her guitar's blow wasn't as powerful as it could have been. It was still enough to lift Rig off his feet and throw him 50 yards sideways, end-over-boots-over-end.

"And STAY down!" She commended, with one hand clamped over her ringing and bleeding ear. 'One swing, traded for a ringing ear. Not bad. Eight outta ten. Not my best…MOVE!' Another bullet streaked by. She read the rifling grooves as it passed her eyes. Rig was not staying down.

. . .

Just a minute in and I was already spitting blood. There was no way to have blocked or dodged her dash forward. I'd fired, hauled my guitar down from recoil, reloaded, and got back on the sights just in time to see a pink blur near the muzzle. Soon's I pulled the trigger, I thought: 'Fuck. I missed. This's gonna hurt.' I wasn't sure if the blood was just from my bitten tongue, or something from inside my battered gut. But my mouth was already filled with red stuff, and if my 'elephant standing on my beltline' pain were any indicator, I was probably slotted to piss and shit some blood for a week too; if I lived that long. The pain was really a bad sign. It was enough to override the numbing of N.O. This fight needed wrapped up before I bled internally to death. But I had no luxury of entertaining my own complaints. So I repacked my lip, spat blood and tobacco juice, and got on with it.

Oh, you've no doubt figured out the origin of Backbreaker's name. Shoulder-Crusher would have been more fitting. The round itself is a 20mm by 76.2mm, set in a four inch straight-wall casing for an overall six inch shell. The projectile is 2,000 grains, that's 130 grams, of hardened steel around a core of desensitized RDX explosive, with a contact fuze at its nose, all flung along at 1,607 feet per second. It's a custom piece. These characteristics make for _horrendous_ recoil, especially in a break-action platform with no redirection of gases through a piston or inline system, nor a muzzle brake. All of it goes straight into you. However, if you can connect your shot with your target, the results are friggin' _spectacular_! Gallagher's Sledge-O-Matic, and they're the watermelon.

With these terminal ballistics in mind, I loosed another shot. I know, I know, her back was turned. Well…fuck that noise. I had a 50/50 guess on which way she'd flinch, and I picked wrong. Did put it right past her eyes though! She prob'bly read the rifling grooves as it went by. Deciding that last round was too close for comfort, she took for the skies. She tossed down and forward her guitar, it skimmed just shy of the ground as she hopped on and took off. Circling around my head, she could now attack from any angle; and at faster speeds than running. I had to blow her outta the sky, and bring her back to my level before she could dive bomb me ten feet into the dirt.

. . .

Even from above, she thought he looked too calm. She'd gotten a good hit on him, blood was dripping down his chin. The rising current of N.O. was sufficient to keep her aloft, so for the moment she was content to time her attack. Once he'd fired again, she would have sufficient warning and distance to dodge, she'd take the guitar in her hands and dive: pile-driving him into the ground for keeps. Game. Set. Match. But he wasn't firing? Why wasn't he firing? What was he waiting for?!

'Shoot already, you miserable little Human! Get it over with, you're taking too damn long!' Vials of N.O. were not unknown to her, other species had long been trying to match hers in means of N.O. manipulation. But she didn't know of a side effect it had on mental capacity. Rig wasn't firing because he was doing some fast math.

. . .

Target is moving…calls for Specialty Shell…Timed Fuze, left pouch. Target's speed is…rough thirty miles an hour. Thirty over thirty-six-hundred seconds, zero point zero-zero eight three….repeating of course, miles per second. Times five two eighty: forty-four feet per second. Distance to target…call it one-fifty yards even. Wind, negligible. Slow us down to…sixteen hundred F.P.S. even. Time to target. One-fifty yards, by three, four-fifty feet. Four-fifty over sixteen hundred, zero point two eight seconds. At forty-four feet per second, that's a…zero point two eight times forty-four…twelve foot, four inch lead. Okay. Round is dead on at fifty yards. Dead on at fifty, low two inches at one hundred…was nine inches low at one fifty. Okay. Speed is sixteen hundred even, twist rate of one to twenty-four, eight hundred R.P.S. Eight hundred times zero point two eight, two hundred twenty four rotations. One click on fuze is twenty rotations, so from bottom minimum of twenty, that's ten more clicks. Be 'bout four feet short at detonation. Momentum should carry shrapnel. Okay. Twelve foot, four inches in front…nine inches up…math's good, sight looks good, gun feels good. Sending it.

. . .

Rig had set the centrifugal fuze of one of his Specialty Shells to go off four feet away from Haruko. She would fly right into a two foot wide cloud of searing copper jacket razors, red-hot steel shards, and burning explosive; not to mention the not insignificant shockwave. At best, she'd be catastrophically shredded from the belly-button up. Luckily for her, for once in his life, Rig's math was slightly off. In his excitement, he'd forgotten to factor for temperature, humidity, and atmospheric pressure. Haruko was also a few feet further than one hundred and fify yards away. Rig also forgot his guitar's sighting point was several inches above its barrel. The round instead detonated two feet low and one foot behind Haruko herself. The shrapnel didn't hit her, but the impact of it on her guitar, and the shockwave, threw her off balance. Down, down, down she careened, plowing face-first into the ground. Hard.

. . .

In that moment, I knew I'd done fucked up. Her upper half hadn't exploded in a red mist, I had not killed her. I'd blown my one chance, and now I was gonna get it. Not only was she still alive…she was pissed.

. . .

" ** _RRRRrrrrooooaaahhhhgrrrgghhhhh!_** " A primal roar echoed as she pried herself from the divit she'd made in the stones. The 20mm's shrapnel had cut three of her guitar's strings, damaged both fretboards, and taken a chunk from a headstock. Upon impact she'd felt a few ribs break; even she wasn't immune to damage from falling fifty feet at thirty miles an hour onto a bed of rocks. Damaged most though, was her pride. Looking over and seeing him stubbornly _still not dead_ , reloading for _another_ shot, and his guitar **_still_** playing, added more gasoline to her rage. Even if he blew one of her arms off, she'd pick up her severed limb and beat him to death with it.

 _WHHOOooaaa! Those fortified motor cars!_

 _High energy, and it's all ours! Ha! Ha! Ha! Dig this!_

 _WHHOOOAaaaa! Such a heavy place for the Boys and Girls!_

 _It's the Murder Capital of the World! Yeow!_

 _Well, Detroit City, she's the place to be!_

 _Mad-Dog town's gonna set yah free! I say!_

. . .

Like I said, I hadn't killed her; I'd flubbed the shot. Now it was a matter of holding out until she got exhausted from whoopin' on me, or _maybe_ finding an opening somewhere if she got sloppy. I fired again, only to watch her leap up and high-jump style let it pass harmlessly under her back. As she completed the roll, she brought her guitar down one-handed and nearly caved in my skull. Only by forgoing a reload and counter-swinging did I avoid it. I figured that as long as I stayed untouched, I was okay.

 _It's ah Motor-City Maaadhouse! Motor-City Maaadhouse!_

 _Motor-City Maaadhouse! (Such a Madhouse!) Motor-City Maaaadhouse! (It's a Madhouse!)_

As long as I kept the music going, I'd be okay…as long as I had Sound, and she didn't, we'd at least be on relatively even footing…

 _Motor-City Maaadhouse! (Welcome to my Madhouse!) Motor-City Maadhouse!_

 _Motor-City Maaaadhouse! (It's a Motor-City Madhouse!) Motor-City Maaaaaaadd…..OW!_

The lines, that how she did it. The N.O. flows, pure energy! That's how she moved so fast, why her style seemed random and erratic; and why she could dodge bullets. Now that I could see them, it made perfect sense, for what little good it did. I'm not my father, after all. At least the lines of N.O. gave me some kind of indicator where she might be coming from.

 _It's such a Madhouse, I can hardly get next to myself…_

Swing right, blocked. Swing left, blocked. Swing suddenly reversed, fall back and jump out of the way. Get knocked down twice and thrown another fifty yards. Swing high, lean back and count the rivets as that double-body goes by and tickles your nose. Back and forth we went, with me fighting for my life, and she playing with her food. Then, as the song was entering its final crescendos, she slipped up.

 _OHHHH, No, No, NO, NO! Mad House! Motor-City Madhouse!_

 _Motor-City Madhouse! (Oh it's such a **MAD** -House!)_

 _Motor-City Madhouse! (Whooaa! Oh no, no, no!)_

 _Motor-City Madhouse! Motor-City Maaaaadddd…Ohhhhhh…_

 _Meh-heh, hehe, HA-HA! No, NO, NOOOOooo..!_

She'd switched grips from left-handed to right, probably to throw my off, and swung sideways. Holding both fretboards, she was swinging at me the flat back of her guitar's body; a broad arm smasher instead of a narrow bone-breaker. I swung a bone-breaker, leading with the narrow bottom of my guitar's body. I connected dead between the Flying-V and EB-0; right on the seam. At the same time, another of her strings broke, and I hit a crescendo of drums, bass, guitar, and singing, all blasting from my portable amp. In that moment, under that much duress, her guitar fractured.

After Naota had told me how the guitar Haruko was carrying came into being, I'd consulted Tommy for expansion on the theory. He explained Guitars can be fused, but they don't usually go for it if they were single, stand-alone entities before. A purpose-built double-neck is just fine, because it was meant to be that way from its inception. A forced joining, even with a willing pair, will always have friction. Each half will be refusing to submit to the other, and trying to dominate its partner. Skilled players _can_ keep the two halves in line, and Haruko evidently had managed to do so. But they'll always be looking to be free again, and play their own sound as just their own, alone. If subjected to too major of a stress, they will split. And with three guitar and one bass strings broken, and the hammering they had taken, the Flying-V and EB-0 came apart in a pent-up burst of N.O. that sent both Haruko and I flying.

I landed in my best Scorpion Pose; my feet actually touching the ground either side of my head! First I stood, and did my best to ignore my dislocated left shoulder. What I could not ignore, was the sudden silence. I looked down and right. My guitar was no longer plugged in. The Flying-V's notch had snagged on the amp's cable, pulling it from my guitar; then taking the cable with it, it yanked the amp off my belt. Not good. NOT good. Not GOOD. NOT GOOD. _Not Good. NOT Good. NotgoodNotgoodNotgoodNotgoooodd…_ Okay, at least she's disarmed right? There's no way she could have held on to either of those with that kind of…fuck. The dust cleared, and she stood up. With the EB-0. _Atomsk's EB-0._ And you thought she was peeved, _BEFORE_. Now without that pesky extra weight to slow her down, I was a dead man standing. As she advanced, I grasped my elbow and reset my shoulder with a white-out snap of pain. I was going to need both hands. I managed to deflect two strikes before getting the body's heel stabbed into my chest. The EB-0 was withdrawn, then swung in a sweeping leg breaker at my femur. I tried to jump over her swing, but she caught my lower right leg on my way up. Before I went spinning sideways, I felt both my tibia and fibula break.

. . .

 _FINALLY_. She'd put the smack-down on Rig, and put it good. Her swing had launched him a good seventy five yards this time, depositing him with a lifeless *thud*. He didn't get up, and he didn't move. Haruko was half a mind to ensure he was finished, a few whacks to the forebrain would've been enough. But her ear was still ringing and bleeding, the flesh of it throbbing, the skin prickled from the muzzle flash burn, she hadn't slept…and was just…Done. Done with G &R, Overwatch, Medical Mechanica, The Man in Black, Pennsylvania, all of it, and she just wanted to get away from everything.

"I'll bet he's got a Gundam Module on that thing…somewhere." She made her way to Rig's Ought-Too, looking it over. One of the toolboxes yielded a hidden ratchet similar to hers. Feeling a little better, she uninstalled from the Ought-Too its Gundam Module, this one looking more like a WW2 era G.I. Joe and painted green, and transferred it to her Vespa. It was an awkward fit, but her machine accepted the new component. Now, this was more like it. She was still furious about her guitar splitting. The Flying-V portion was nowhere obvious to be seen. She'd have to look around a little for it, and then figure out how to get the two back together. Or maybe, she'd have better luck wielding them with one in each hand? This could be a blessing in disguise, maybe the day was starting to move in a positive direction.

"…H…Hey…Hey!" That would be a no.

'Ignoring…'

"Hey! I know you can hear me!"

'Ignore, ignore, ignore. Where is the Flying-V? I've got to find it fast, try and get it back with the EB-0…where is…'

"Y-you can't even manage to whoop _MY_ ass! Where did you get the idea you can take on Atomsk?!" She let that one go. He was just trying to wind her up and make her do something stupid. There were better, more important, things to do. "How the hell did you even get into the G.S.P.B. with a psych head case bad as yours; you bein' as nuts and bolts crazy as you are? What'd you do, suck off a few of the Commandants on the admissions board?"

She stopped. That one, she could not let go. If Rig was just trying to get under her skin, he was dangerously close to succeeding.

"And look at you now! What have you got to show for it? Jack fuckin' shit, that's what! What a waste of a good, red uniform for the G.S.P.B.; and a few blowjobs on your part. Shame, shame." She was beginning to shake and the ground under her feet tremored. The EB-0's fretboard groaned and creaked under her tightening grip. "You should've done yourself and everyone else a favor, and had the decency to die in those woods. In the _Gwisyos-Kikee Bernotkiktem._ "

 _**"WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU JUST SAY?!"**_

"You fuckin' heard me." She whirled around, seeing a not-dead Rig propping himself up on an elbow; grimaced in pain. His guitar lay behind him and well out of his reach. He was being awful ballsy for someone disarmed.

"Some great, highly-evolved being _you_ are. A proud Liberas that can't even kill a hick kid from the Sticks. You could've…" He hacked and coughed, blood flecking on his lips. "You could be with your parents right now, and saved everyone else the pain of having to tolerate your existence…"

"How do you, you, you…how do you know about that?!" She forgot all of her plans. Rig was going to certain death with each word, and he just would not shut up. She was going to kill him slowly, throttling the truth from him until his eyeballs popped. "You've got no right, NO RIGHT to say any of that! You, you take that back; right now! How do you know about the Ever-Green Forest?!" She picked him up by the throat, ready to thrash him until he told her everything, or his neck snapped; whichever came first. Bent at the waist, she stood astride him, his legs and arms dangling.

"Same's I told Naota when I met him. I have ways of knowing lots of things. I know 'most everything going on in Clearfield and Centre Counties. And, since you're IN Clearfield County: that means you too. I have your file at home, it's full've interesting bits. I also asked Canti and Josh to help me pose as a few different high-ups in Overwatch, and we sent out spoof messages to get more information. Classified psychological evaluations, for inst-…*Hack-hack*…instance. What a tragedy. No wonder you flunked the G.S.P.B. entrance battery the first time."

"You think you're do damn clever, don't you?! It's not gonna help you once I've snapped your neck in half!" She started applying pressure, determined to put an end to this living insult.

"If you do that, you won't know that At…" Rig began to say as she cut off his air.

"Atomsk?! What about him, what do you know? Tell me!" Rig tried to say, but only a mumble came out. Unwilling to relax her grip, she instead leaned closer, straining to hear with her good ear.

. . .

That's right…a little closer…a _little_ closer…

. . .

Only at nose to nose, did she overcome her blinding rage. It was only then and there, too close and too late, that she realized his eyes were still blue.

. . .

"That Atomsk's gonna pulverize you into this planet's core, if a million-year, under-evolved monkey like me can do _THIS._ HUUUUAAAACKKKK!" Haruko's world went black. Her eyes were on fire, searing acid eating at her corneas made for a crippling agony. Rig had spat his mouthful of tobacco plug, loose leaves, tobacco juice, blood, spit and all, onto Haruko's face and into her eyes. Now even the Copenhagen Company was involved.

She let go with her left hand, keeping a tight grip with her right, and tried to clear her eyes. Doing so opened her left side, Rig's right side. She managed to half-clear one eye, both streaming with tears to flush the offensive fluids, but she still couldn't see what Rig's right hand was doing. It was reaching behind him for the small of his back. But she did hear the very distinctive _Cli-Cla-Clack!_ of a revolver's hammer being thumbed back.

A revolver's soulless black hole of a muzzle wavered into view. There wasn't any time. Rig's finger punched the trigger and Haruko heard the hammer drop, slam into the firing pin, and it connect with the round's primer. The revolver was much too close. A flash appeared at the cylinder gap. Did she even have time to flinch? The jagged crown of a hollow-point bullet emerged. She at least had to try. Propellant gases followed the bullet and exploded in dazzling miniature sun. She let go of Rig and tried to turn away. Now Haruko's vision went blinding white.

. . .

"Sergeant Simmons!"

"Sir."

"I require…oh! Captain Chojnacki. A pleasant surprise, certainly. But you really ought to be resting." The Man had caught the haggard Captain approaching on his peripheral. The right half of Chojnacki's face was swollen and bandaged, a sunken hole where his right eye had been. From head to toe, the Captain ached but knew he must make an appearance.

"Some things you have to see for yourself." Chojnacki looked upon what remained of Cole. No one had been ordered to remove the corpse from center court; and no one was volunteering. "Is he dead?"

"Thoroughly so." The Man was clinical. "It has been…" A quick pocketwatch consultation was performed. "Exactly ten minutes since his heart stopped. Are you pleased with this?"

"No. But I am not saddened either It's just such…such a…"

"A waste."

"Yes. What of them?" Chojnacki nodded at the eleven chained to the fence. "Acid as well?"

"In the interest of efficiency, and considering their lesser involvement as only followers and not leaders, I was about to ready a Firing Squad. Unless…you think acid would be better served?" The Man cocked an eyebrow. "They are your troopers, after all."

"No, I agree." Chojnacki looked each of the elven over. He recognized them all. Two he had interviewed personally. They had shown promise to make Sergeant someday. "But only I will command it. They are _my_ troopers, after all."

"Very well." The Man graciously bowed himself out. "As you wish."

"Think we ought to give them a last cigarette? It is a tradition here on Earth."

"Absolutely not! The Red Star forbids smoking; it is a vile and disgusting habit. Now, make hast Captain. The day is young and there is much to do."

"This won't take long." Chojnacki promised. 'I can't bear doing this…so let's be over with it and be done!' For a fleeting moment, he wished Cole had been a better shot. "S…Sergeant Simmons!"

"Yes, Captain."

"I need eleven men, with M16's, chosen at random."

"Understood, Sir. Okay ladies and gentlemen, line up! Gimme two rows, quickly now!" With everyone lined up, Sergeant Simmons began counting. "One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven. Isaac. Front and center. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven. Nielson. Up you go." And up and down he counted until he collected the unfortunate delegation. "Nine, ten, eleven. Hynen. You're the last one. Have Ross lend you his rifle and a magazine. One row now, dress-right-dress. Rank, forward! March!"

. . .

Hynen thought he was going to throw up. He managed to keep in stride with the rest, a borrowed rifle leaned on his shoulder. This standard M16A4 weighed only seven and a half pounds, but to him it felt like sixteen tons.

"Squad, ready…halt!" Sergeant Simmons ordered and they stopped a mere fifteen yards shy of the fence. At this range, Hynen reasoned he could _throw_ the rifle and hit someone. It would be impossible to claim they missed.

'Why me, why me, why me…oh-why-oh-why-oh-why me?!' Now the urge to vomit was replaced with jitters. His body wanted to let go of all tension building in it and jellify. He'd never shot anyone in the line of duty. Actually, now that he thought on it, he'd yet to even draw his pistol and aim it at anyone. 'It wasn't supposed to be like this!'

"Officers Ames, Heenan, Lindh, Walker Junior, Philby, Burgess, MacLean, Blunt, Cairncross, Dorr, and Browne." Captain Chojnacki stood between them and the firing squad. "You stand accused of having committed Treason against this department, Insubordination, and Usurpation of your commanding officers. You have also committed Treason against The Red Star of The Solar Federation, broken your vows of servitude to The Temple of Syrinx, and rejected the Benevolence of The Priests. Finally, betrayal of the highest and worst order: murder of fellow Patrolmen. All acts were witnessed by the entirety of this department, and are indisputable. How do you plead?"

"Guilty, Captain." Patrolman Browne answered for the group. "We plead guilty."

"Thank you, Officer Browne. With a guilty plea, Pennsylvania law may allow for life imprisonment in place of execution. However, law under The Red Star does not suffer Traitors to live. Punishment shall be execution by firing squad. If anyone wishes to speak last words, speak them now."

"Goddamn, we were fuckin' stupid huh?" Officer Walker Jr. shook his head. "I knew I wasn't destined to grow old; just not like this. Oh well. Let's get this over with, these cuffs really do start to chafe after a while."

"Anyone else?" The rest were silent. Except for Burgess. Her eyes were clenched tight and lips moved in silent prayer. Oh Heavenly Father, forgive me, for I have sinned… "Very well. Sergeant Simmons, proceed at your discretion."

"Squad, ready! Present, arms!" They snapped their rifles to their front. Hynen's mouth went dry.

"Mount, arms!" They raised their rifles to their shoulders. Perhaps if he fainted, they would drag him aside and replace him?

"Make ready!" Eleven clicks sounded as the safeties were flicked off.

"Take aim!" With no blindfolds or hoods, Hynen got a good look at his target. Patrolman Ames. 25. Mousy brown hair, brown eyes. 5'-11". Medium build. Thin, long face. Cleft in his chin. Dimple on his left cheek only. Hynen knew him from pick-up basketball games on this very court. Ames drove a Dodge truck, grey. He was married, Karla was her name. Both had been trying for a child. Why had he thrown all that away? A lapse of sanity? Had that been Cole's real power: bending anyone to his bidding? Hynen swallowed hard and steadied his aim. The front sight post settled onto Ames' third shirt button; his X-ring. If Ames hadn't turned, if he'd stood up and said 'No!'…If he'd grown a spine and done the right thing, Hynen wouldn't be randomly picked, and aiming a rifle at him. Why had Ames just gone along and done nothing; even if he _knew_ what he was doing was wrong?!

" **FIRE!** "

The morning calm shattered at the crack of eleven rifles.

. . .

* * *

Songs:

*Motor City Madhouse - Ted Nugent

I hate to do it, I really do; I really, really do. But I'm gonna make you hang on that cliff of Haruko Hill for a while. I have to keep you coming back emsomehow.

Here's to hoping you noticed I have started to sprinkle in a few words here and there of the language spoken in The Red Star, and by the Liberas. I am not going to go full Tolkien and completely invent a brand new language just for this story; I have found a reliable generator to use. No! I am not sharing haha! But since I plan to begin bringing M-M into more prominence, it seemed odd that all of them would conveniently speak flawless English, or at least would for some reason speak it to each other; especially in company of Humans.

Patrolman Hynen is going to serve as a perfect window into the police viewpoint on things. He doesn't feel like a good or bad character, just someone who made the wrong decision in a difficult spot. We find him not happy with where he's wound up, and he can't figure out if he would be better served getting the hell out, or just hunkering down and riding it out.

I think that is all for now, please feel free to let me know if I have forgotten anything. A challenge in my life is working up the nerve to attempt an original book/novel/story/what-have-you of my own, so really please do tell me where and what I can improve; and what works too! Hopefully the crud I have clears up and I won't make you wait months for another set of chapters. Many thanks again!


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